



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


/ 





THE THIRD PARTY 






















* 




















THEIR, IEYES MET AND SILENTLY SHE SMILED FORGIVENESS 


Page 221 




THE 

THIRD PARTY 


BY 

FREDERIC ARTHUR STANLEY 

» 


NEW YORK 

THE MACAULAY COMPANY 
191S 


/ 


Copyright, 1915, 

By The Macaulay Company 


AUG 16 1915 

©CI.A411091 

TvC -V' 

\ 


V 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

An Erratic Lover 

# # 

PAGE 

I 

II. 

Relating to the Pottingers 


25 

III. 

The Fortune-Teller 


42 

IV. 

The Lure of a Siren . 


61 

V. 

The Restaurant Royale . 


80 

VI. 

A Catastrophe . 


88 

VII. 

The Important Engagement 


110 

VIII. 

A Nice Little Dinner 


124 

IX. 

An Invitation . 


143 

X. 

Sunday Morning at “Crow’s 

Nest” 



Cottage 


i 57 

XI. 

Visitors at “Crow’s Nest” 


171 

XII. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Jones” Arrive 


182 

XIII. 

Janet’s Discovery 


194 

XIV. 

A Challenge 


213 

XV. 

A Detective from Scotland Yard . 

218 

XVI. 

The Storm .... 


226 

XVII. 

The Blue Room . 


234 

XVIII. 

A Terrible Dilemma . 


249 

XIX. 

The Last Straw 


268 

XX. 

Deliverance 


279 





ILLUSTRATIONS 


Their eyes met and silently she smiled forgiveness 

Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

The parlour maid was now beaming with good 

humour 32 

Hilary had been watching her every movement . 104 

“Great Heavens!” he exclaimed. “My wife!” . 140 

A cry of suppressed horror drove 'them apart . . 220 

The Admiral plumped down on the filmy confec- 
tion of lace 264 


% 











































/ 



























THE THIRD PARTY 



THE THIRD PARTY 


CHAPTER I 

AN ERRATIC LOVER 

D ORIS MAYNE was growing impatient. 

For the twentieth time she glanced at her 
wristlet watch which pointed to four o’clock, and 
Hilary had promised to call for her at three. 

For nearly an hour she had been waiting in 
her aunt’s drawing-room, but now her face showed 
unmistakable signs of annoyance. She was a 
pretty girl of twenty-three, with soft wavy hair, 
and deep violet eyes which now flashed angrily 
beneath her slightly puckered brows and thick 
dark lashes. Her tall athletic figure was clad in 
a neat tailor-made costume, and her extremely 
chic hat, for whose creation she had herself been 
responsible, might very well have been of Paris 
origin. More than once she had tried to interest 
herself in a newly arrived magazine, but each 
time discovered she had mechanically reached the 
bottom of the page without the least conscious- 
l 


2 The Third Party 

ness of what it was about. At last she threw it 
aside and walked to the window overlooking the 
not very exhilarating prospect of Hans Road, and 
played the devil’s tattoo on the panes with great 
precision and vigour. Her aunt, Miss Ermyn- 
trude Mayne, who was absorbed in the intrica- 
cies of macrame work, had vainly endeavoured to 
interest her niece with a description of the treas- 
ures she had discovered that morning in the bar- 
gain floor at Harrods, “Yes, indeed, my dear, 
you’d hardly believe it— trimmed with real Chan- 
tilly — and only five and eleven pence halfpenny.” 
But the topic failed to arouse the girl’s enthu- 
siasm and Aunt Ermyntrude, observing her rest- 
lessness, and being a lady with strongly developed 
nerves, winced visibly at the rhythmic drumming 
on the glass. 

“I wish, Doris,” she remarked, screwing up her 
features as if her teeth were on edge, “you would 
stop making that irritating noise. If you are not 
interested in what I am saying, at least try and 
behave like a normal creature and don’t fidget.” 

“I’m sure I’m very sorry, Aunt, but I have been 
sitting here for an hour and I feel like a fool for 
doing it.” 

“I’m glad you admit it. When I was a girl, 


An Erratic Lover 


gentlemen didn’t behave as Mr. Chester does. I’m 
surprised that you put up with it.” 

“I don’t intend to put up with it much longer, 
at all events,” the girl flashed back, “and I mean 
to tell him so.” 

Aunt Ermyntrude looked at her niece doubt- 
fully. She had heard that sort of statement be- 
fore and felt the time had come to take matters 
into her own hands. Her widowed brother, 
Colonel Mayne, had died in India two years be- 
fore, of an enlarged liver and a volcanic temper, 
a combination which ended his troubles and left 
a daughter totally unprovided for. As a little 
girl, Doris had been sent to England and placed 
at an expensive school on the North Foreland, re- 
turning to Bengal when her education was com- 
pleted and living with her father till that choleric 
old warrior finally exploded in a burst of apo- 
plectic fury. Three volleys were fired over his 
grave, and the rank and file of his regiment recon- 
ciled themselves to his loss by the firm conviction 
that the sultry conditions of an Indian climate 
would be considerably modified by his departure 
to another world. Doris, having no other sur- 
viving relative, was thankful to accept her aunt 
Ermyntrude’s guarded offer of a temporary home 


4 


The Third Party 

in London. The good lady was not in affluent 
circumstances but enjoyed a sufficient annuity 
to maintain a small flat in that highly respectable 
street in Knightsbridge to which we have referred. 
She made no secret of her intention to get the 
child off her hands at the first possible opportu- 
nity. 

“You see, my dear,” she informed her most in- 
timate crony, Mrs. Maria Caversham, an old 
school-fellow, relict of the late Silvester Caver- 
sham, J.P — L.C.C., and now an active member 
of the Committee of the Social Purity League. 
“You see, my dear Maria, at my age and with my 
orderly habits I can scarcely contemplate taking 
charge of a young girl for an indefinite period. 
Besides my means do not permit of such a thing 
— poor Hector died without leaving a penny piece 
behind him and I had even to pay the child’s 
passage at this end — quite a large sum, though 
she is coming second class by the Hall Line, which 
is cheaper than the P. & O. Hector, with his 
usual disregard for economy, had foolishly al- 
lowed her to travel by the mail boats before, 
and saloon, if you please, but thank heaven there 
is some sense left in the family and Doris may 
consider herself fortunate that I didn’t insist on 


An Erratic Lover 


5 


her waiting till she could find some family to 
bring her over as maid. Of course I shall do my 
best for the poor girl, but if I can’t find a hus- 
band for her, she must look out for a situation as 
governess or companion or something of that 
sort.” 

More than a year had passed since Doris ar- 
rived at Liverpool, and when Hilary Chester, 
formerly attache at the British Embassy in Vi- 
enna, had met the charming Anglo-Indian girl at 
a Richmond garden party, he had promptly fallen 
in love with her. It may be admitted at once 
that it was a habit of Mr. Chester’s to fall in love 
with every pretty woman he met, and to fall out 
again as soon as some new charmer attracted his 
attention, but to everyone’s surprise, including 
his own, he found in Doris a magnet too attrac- 
tive to escape from. At first Aunt Ermyntrude 
was delighted at what seemed an early prospect of 
releasing herself from the responsibilities of 
guardian to a young high spirited girl, but nearly 
a year had elapsed and the engagement showed 
no sign of a satisfactory denouement. Indeed, the 
more she saw of Hilary Chester, the more she 
realised that his capture would not be as easy 
as she first imagined, although she was compelled 


6 


The Third Party 

to admit that he possessed very charming man- 
ners, and was in many respects a most desirable 
parti. He was undoubtedly a butterfly — his 
wings were dazzling, no doubt, but he fluttered 
from flower to flower, as she confided to her dear 
Maria, with as much irresponsibility as a child 
let loose in a fruit garden, first plucking a peach 
and then a nectarine and not knowing which it 
liked best. 

So it happened that when Doris, who was 
by no means lacking in an appreciation of her 
own value, and who had quite reasonable cause 
for irritation, declared her intention of speaking 
plainly to her fiance, Aunt Ermyntrude decided to 
improve the occasion. 

“I daresay you feel like that now,” she said, 
laying aside her macrame work, “but I know ex- 
actly what will happen. He’ll come with some 
plausible excuse, as he always does, and in a 
few minutes you will have forgiven him and he’ll 
think he can twist you round his little finger. 
I never did approve of Hilary Chester and I never 
shall. If he really cared for you ” 

“That’s the worst of it, Aunt, I’m quite sure 
he does.” 

“Then he has a funny way of showing it. That 


An Erratic Lover 7 

is all I can say. At any rate, my dear, it is high 
time you arrived at some definite understanding 
and you must not mind if I speak very plainly 
— I can’t deny that Mr. Chester is a perfectly 
eligible young man — he is well off — perhaps too 
well off to be good for him. Had he been com- 
paratively poor and stuck to the Diplomatic Ser- 
vice, I have no doubt that with his family con- 
nections and their influence, he would have made 
a career for himself, but he is far too indolent 
and purposeless and what is worse, he is an in- 
corrigible flirt. No — it’s no use trying to deny 
it — it’s perfectly true and it is mere folly to 
blind yourself to facts. Maria Caversham was 
telling me only yesterday that he was seen at the 
Botanical Gardens last week with some American 
heiress from Chicago, and carrying on with her 
in the most shameless way — and you know your- 
self he can never pass an attractive woman with- 
out making himself conspicuous by staring after 
her.” 

“It’s not fair of you to say that, Aunt, you 
can’t blame him for admiring a pretty face. It’s 
not his fault, poor fellow, I suppose he was born 
like that.” 

“There’s not much doubt of it, I should say, 


8 


The Third Party 

but it’s not the way to please the girl who’s en- 
gaged to him, or what a wife is likely to admire 
in a husband. You must take a firm hand, my 
dear, because I cannot allow him to go dallying 
on in this way unless his intentions are serious. 
You must remember I shall be closing the flat in 
November when I go to Aix and if nothing is 
settled before then, why really, I’m afraid you 
will have to look out for some situation. I don’t 
wish to appear unkind but with my limited means 
I see no other course for you to follow. Maria 
Caversham was speaking of some friends of hers, 
the Pottingers, who are looking for someone like 
yourself as a sort of companion and amanuensis. 
Christopher Pottinger is quite a distinguished poli- 
tician, you know, and it would be an excellent 
thing for you if it could be arranged.” 

“I’m sure you’ve been very kind, Aunt Ermyn- 
trude, and I should hate to feel that you were 
tied on my account. I’m quite willing to go out 
on my own if necessary — it’s only right I should. 
Of course I know Hilary is rather difficult but I 
think it is only because he is just a little thought- 
less.” 

“And selfish, my child — all men are, the two 
things go together, but one can’t help seeing that 


An Erratic hover 


9 


Hilary Chester thinks more of himself than he 
does of anyone else. Now if you take my ad- 
vice you will stand no more nonsense. When he 
comes — if he does come — I shall give you an op- 
portunity of speaking to him alone for it is too 
late to go out with him now and it would be un- 
dignified to do so after being kept waiting in this 
shameful manner. Take off your hat and don’t 
worry any more. Perhaps you would prefer that 
I should talk to him.” 

“No, indeed, Aunt, I would rather you didn’t 
and I’m sure he must have some very good reason 
for not coming.” 

“I’m quite certain of it,” snapped Aunt Ermyn- 
trude, returning to her macrame. Just then the 
telephone rang. The instrument stood on a writ- 
ing table and Doris lifted off the receiver. In- 
stantly her face became radiant. 

“It’s Hilary, Aunt,” she exclaimed. 

The spinster acknowledged the information 
with a disapproving “humph !” and continued her 
work. 

“What? — Why of course I expected you — No, 
certainly not, I’ve had no letter. When was it 
posted? I see — well it ought to have been here 
before this. Eh? Billy who? Bun — ? — Oh, 


10 


The Third Party 

Dunn — no you’ve never mentioned him, poor fel- 
low, how sad. And you’ve been with him all the 
time. How sweet of you. Of course you can 
come. Yes, I was rather angry but now that I 
know, it doesn’t matter in the least — You’re com- 
ing at once — Right — Goodbye — Oh, Aunt,” cried 
Doris, replacing the receiver, “we’ve been fright- 
fully unjust to poor Hilary. All the time we 
were thinking unkind things about him he’s been 
sitting at the bedside of a dying friend. Double 
Flurryskities, I think he said. Isn’t it splendid 
of him! He’d written to say he couldn’t come 
and I’ve never had the letter. It’s too bad — and 
you calling him selfish when he was sacrificing 
himself to comfort a poor fellow in his last mo- 
ments. Dear Hilary, I always knew he had a 
deeply sympathetic nature.” 

Aunt Ermyntrude did not appear greatly im- 
pressed by this touching proof of Mr. Chester’s 
immolation on friendship’s altar, and received the 
information with another “humph!” which 
seemed to express anything but admiration for the 
good Samaritan. At that moment the parlour- 
maid entered. 

“A letter for you, Miss.” 

Doris took it from the girl eagerly. 


An Erratic Lover 


11 


“Here’s Hilary’s letter at last, Aunt,” she cried, 
examining the postmark. “Dover Street — 12 
noon — Shameful — I should have had it an hour 
ago. This of course explains everything.” 

She tore the envelope open and, as she glanced 
at the crested sheet of Club note paper, her brows 
puckered in puzzled surprise. Then she gave a 
little gasp, as if to recover her breath, and looked 
at the letter again. This is what she read. 

‘‘Most Fascinating Kissie: 

“Your adorable wink was absolutely thrilling. I 
wasn’t sure if you’d get that scrawl I sent round from 
the stalls, and I was tremendously bucked when I got 
the signal all right. You are a sport and no mistake. 
Be at Rumplemeyers’ at three sharp — We might taxi 
down to Richmond and call at Hunt & Roskells’ on the 
way for a little Souvenir — Eh? 

“Tootle Tum with the Eye Glass.” 

“Oh-h-h ! ! ! ! ! — But what < ?” Doris was 

feeling hysterical — “I — I — oh, dear — Of course 

I’m not dreaming, but all the same ” She 

looked up and encountered the eyes of Aunt 
Ermyntrude, who was staring at the girl’s flushed 
and excited face with an air of suspicious en- 
quiry. 


12 


The Third Party 

“Your letter seems to have agitated you, my 
dear,” she remarked dryly. 

“Yes — no — not really, but ” 

To her aunt’s astonishment, Doris burst into a 
fit of uncontrollable laughter. 

“Oh, but it’s too funny,” she said at last, strug- 
gling to recover her breath. “Hilary has put this 
letter into the wrong envelope — It wasn’t for me 

at all, but — oh, dear ” Again she tried to 

suppress her laughter. “It’s a perfectly shameful 
letter to some girl he calls ‘Kissie,’ and the worst 
of it is he doesn’t seem to know her, or she him. 
I ought to be frightfully angry, but I simply can’t 
— It’s all so ridiculously absurd.” 

“It appears to me, Doris, to be a matter which 
scarcely calls for levity.” 

“Well, perhaps it doesn’t, but then I’ve got 
such a fatal sense of humour, and don’t you see 
what a time I shall have with Hilary when he 
does corned My dear Aunt, it’s the best thing 
that could have happened. It’s going to settle 
matters one way or another, that’s certain. There, 
I expect that’s him,” she added, with contemptu- 
ous disregard for Lindley Murray, as the electric 
bell thrilled merrily, and a moment later the un- 
suspecting delinquent was announced. 


An Erratic Lover 


13 


Hilary Chester was an extremely smart, well 
set up young fellow of thirty — quite old enough 
to have sown his wild oats or the best or worst 
part of them, and learned the sober ways of wis- 
dom, but he was one of those perverse products 
of humanity who persistently refuse to profit by 
experience. His temperament was so sanguine 
and optimistic that he literally shrank at noth- 
ing. An adventure was the breath of his nostrils, 
even if its consequences threatened disaster, for 
he felt an absolute assurance that his good luck 
would pull him through it. With an income of 
five thousand a year, he vowed he was the hard- 
est up man in town — an opinion probably due to 
the fact that he did not regard the expenditure of 
twice that sum as incompatible with his assets. 
Hence his name was honoured and received by 
the Jew Aristocracy of Jermyn Street. He was 
the essence of generosity and good nature and 
there was not much vice in him. He always 
meant well, but his dominating irresponsibility 
pulverized his good intentions as remorsely as a 
steam roller. One quality he possessed to an ex- 
traordinary degree — a magnetic personal charm 
that was irresistible. No one could ever be seri- 
ously angry with him for five minutes. There 


14 


The Third Party 

was a twinkle in his eye, and a humorous curve of 
mouth, that would have mollified a Lord Chief 
Justice. When he left the Foreign Office, the 
Diplomatic Service lost a potential Ambassador 
who would have successfully cajoled any court in 
Europe. No one will ever know how much his in- 
discriminate and simultaneous love making to the 
Ambassador’s wife and daughter may have cost 
his country, but the consequences unfortunately 
compelled his resignation. Thus did Great Britain 
lose the services of one who was quite capable of 
shedding lustre on her name, provided he did not, 
in the meanwhile, disgrace it. Personally, as has 
been suggested, he was good to look at. He was re- 
markably well groomed, and carried his slim, well 
knit figure with an air of aristocratic distinction. 
His eye glass seemed part of his anatomy and his 
clothes were perfection. For one who was sup- 
posed to have come from the bedside of a dying 
friend he was smiling cheerfully. The quite un- 
accountable non-appearance of Miss Kissie de 
Vere of the Alcazar had not disturbed him seri- 
ously, and he had no suspicion of his blunder with 
the envelopes. He greeted Miss Ermyntrude and 
Doris with a genial smile, which the former ac- 
knowledged with a profound sniff, and proceeded 


An Erratic Lover 


15 


to apologise for the unavoidable delay in his visit. 

“Most frightfully sorry, you know, only heard 
this morning that poor dear old Jimmy was peg- 
ging out. Was bound to go, of course, but I 
knew my note would explain how it was. Won- 
der why you didn’t get it, though.” 

“Oh, I got it all right — It came just now.” 

“Righto! I say, Doris, you’re looking pretty 
fit this afternoon. Quite ripping! isn’t it, Miss 
Mayne ?” 

“I fear I don’t understand that precise de- 
scription,” Mr. Chester. “The English vocabulary 
seems so much larger than it was in my young 
days, and I confess my ignorance of hipping.’ ” 

This was in Aunt Ermyntrude’s most lofty style 
of sarcasm and she was secretly annoyed to find 
it had no more withering effect than to elicit an- 
other beaming smile from the visitor, which was 
even more transcendent than the first. 

“Is your friend better?” enquired Doris. 

“Poor old Jimmy will never be better,” said the 
bed-side visitor genially. “Quite a hopeless case.” 

“I understood you to say his name was Billy, 
over the wire.” 

“Some fault in the telephone, I expect — The 
beastly things are always playing tricks like that 


16 


The Third Party 

— Billy — I mean Jimmy, and I were at Eton, you 
know — Surely you must have heard me speak of 
Jimmy Blake.” 

“You said Dunn this afternoon,” corrected 
Aunt Ermyntrude. 

“Quite so,” admitted the unabashed liar, re- 
garding her evenly ; “for the moment I was think- 
ing of somebody else.” 

“I’ve no doubt you were” said the elderly lady 
with pointed emphasis, replacing her work in an 
old fashioned table mysteriously constructed of 
mahogany and amber coloured silk. “I must ask 
you to excuse me, Mr. Chester. Doris will be able 
to amuse you, I’m sure.” 

She sailed from the room and Doris, whose eyes 
had followed her till she disappeared, turned those 
decidedly attractive features on her recreant lover 
and very deliberately winked at him. To say that 
Hilary was surprised would be incorrect. Noth- 
ing ever did surprise him, but he was certainly 
mystified and might have believed himself mis- 
taken had she not with perfect solemnity added 
to his perplexity by winking a second time. 

“Well,” she said, convinced by his silence that 
he was puzzled. “How do I do it and how do 
you like it?” 


An Erratic Lover 17 

“You do it admirably, and I think it most un- 
ladylike.” 

“I thought it rather sporting. You like ‘sports,’ 
don’t you?” 

“I’m hanged if I know what you mean,” was 
the lame but obvious reply. All the same the ir- 
relevance of her remark was disconcerting. Hil- 
ary was puzzled. 

“Well, never mind, Hilary, perhaps I mean 
nothing at all. I only wanted to see if I could 
manage it — most girls can’t, you know. It’s what 
they call the Glad Eye, isn’t it? But of course 
you wouldn’t know what nonsense I’m talking. 
Tell me more about poor Billy — or is it 
Jimmy?” 

“Confound Jimmy, I didn’t come here to talk 
about him.” 

“Perhaps you’d rather talk about Kissie?” 

She looked at him steadily with her big lumi- 
nous eyes, and he could distinctly feel an icy chill 
trickling down his spine. 

“Kissie ! ! ! Great Scot ! Who the ?” 

“You really ought to be more careful, Hilary — 
It’s so stupid to put letters in the wrong en- 
velopes.” 

In a mere fraction of a second there seemed 


18 The Third Party 

time enough to call himself every conceivable va- 
riety of idiot. 

“Well, Pm You don’t mean to say ?” 

“Yes,” she said, “I do mean it — and how aw- 
fully sorry Kissie would be to hear about poor 
Jimmy. Don’t you think she would ?” 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Doris, don’t rub it in. 
I’ve been an awful ass. Do say you forgive me.” 

“I don’t know why I should,” she replied, ut- 
terly unmoved by his expression of pathetic ap- 
peal, which, in his opinion, should have melted 
the heart of a stone. 

“But that’s all rot,” protested Hilary, who was 
incapable of believing that anyone could be seri- 
ously angry with him for long. 

“You don’t seem to realize that you’ve be- 
haved disgracefully, and it isn’t the first time 
either. You might be straightforward, at least, 
and then you wouldn’t muddle things up as you 
do now — You make such howlers, you know. 
When you tell me, as you did last week, that you 
were late because you had a feverish watch and 
forgot to wind up your pulse, you are past pray- 
ing for.” 

“Oh, come, I say, Doris. You are piling it up, 
aren’t you? I admit it might look like that at 


An Erratic Lover 


19 


first sight, but if you only take the right point of 
view you'll see it in quite a different light." 

“From your point of view, I supposed” 

“Of course; I look at things in their true pro- 
portion — you don’t." 

He spoke in a tone of gentle reproof. He had 
quite regained his composure, and his manner sug- 
gested that he was gently admonishing Doris for 
some mental obliquity rather than engaged in his 
own defence. 

“I daresay I’m very stupid," she said, leaning 
back in her chair and staring at the ceiling with 
an air of supreme indifference, “but it seemed to 
me there was only one way of looking at it." 

“That’s where you are mistaken. But admit- 
ting I did make an ass of myself it’s only one 
of those things that might happen to anybody. In 
reality you know quite well I’m the most constant 
and devoted of men." Doris raised her eyes and 
laughed gaily. “Now please don’t interrupt, and 
what there is to laugh about I’m sure I don’t 
know. The fact is I ought to be pitied." 

“I think so too." 

“Of course. It’s all due to my artistic tempera- 
ment. I’m naturally impressionable. That’s not 
my fault, is it? If it leads me into some trivial 


20 


The Third Party 

and quite unpremeditated indiscretion, that’s not 
my fault either. You can’t really suppose I care 

for anyone but you. The fact is ” he paused 

as a sudden inspiration came to him — he could 
lie artistically and veracity was not necessary. 
“The fact is, my dear, I did it entirely on your 
account.” 

“Do you mean to say you invite chorus girls 
to eat ices at Rumplemeyers’, take them to Rich- 
mond in taxis, and buy souvenirs at Hunt and 
Roskells’ on my account*?” 

“That’s the idea. Oh, you needn’t laugh — it’s 
perfectly true. I’ve always felt how different 
you are to every other girl I ever met. You simply 
knock spots off the best of ’em, and I’ve quite made 
up my mind that there isn’t another girl in the 
world who’d suit me half so well.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” 

“But you will in a minute. Feeling like that, 
you know, it’s not likely I could care for anyone 
else but — well you can never be sure about most 
things and I wanted to be sure about that. I 
wanted to be certain that nothing could ever come 
between us or lessen my — er — my devotion and 
— er — constancy. I felt I owed it to you. Wasn’t 
I right*?” 


An Erratic Lover 21 

Doris gave an amused little smile and admitted 
he was. 

“Very well, then,” continued Hilary. “How do 
you suppose I decided to set about it? It was as 
simple as A.B.C. Now let us say I happen to 
meet a pretty girl. For the sake of argument we’ll 
call her a clinker. You know the sort — lovely 
complexion, shimmering hair, wonderful eyes, 
teeth like pearls, rosebud mouth, and all that sort 
of thing — You may have noticed them like that 
at the Savoy sometimes.” 

“You appear to have done so at any rate.” 

“Of course I have. Don’t you see ? That’s 

the idea! I naturally say to myself — a woman 
like that is dangerous. She is a — a — what d’ye call 
it? — a siren! If any creature could lure a man 
from er — the straight path of er — honour — and 
fidelity and — all that sort of thing, she’d just be 
the sort of woman to do it. Well, that shows me 
she’s the one I want for my experiment. I flirt 
with her — I may even make love to her, and what 
is the result? I prove conclusively that even her 
charms are powerless to — to — er — eradicate your 
image from my heart. So far, so good, but I go 
further. You see, darling, for your sake I must 
make no mistake. I meet another — she may be 


22 


The Third Party 

of a different type, but still beautiful — that is es- 
sential, of course. It is the same old game — I 
mean the same old story — Her charms are but skin 
deep and Doris is still supreme mistress of my 
heart.” 

“It sounds very flattering,” murmured Doris. 

“It’s true at all events,” he continued unblush- 
ingly. “But even then I may not be satisfied. 
Once more I say to myself, ‘Hilary, old chap, are 
you quite sure^ If not you owe it to your own 
little Doris to find out,’ so I repeat the experi- 
ment. You see, dear, when you come to look at 
it, how harmless it all is.” 

“Yes, I see. I suppose as you only love them 
a little, there’s no harm in loving a lot.” 

“Exactly — no, of course, I don’t quite mean 
that. You mustn’t suppose I do these things be- 
cause I like doing ’em. But knowing my own 
weakness, Doris, I am determined not to spare 
myself, however unpleasant the task may be. My 
strict sense of duty — my er — devotion to you, de- 
mands the sacrifice, and it shall be made.” 

There was something quite noble in the way 
Hilary proclaimed this disinterested resolution to 
persevere with his experiment, and it was rather 
disconcerting that Doris, after listening to him 


An Erratic Lover 23 

quite seriously, should suddenly burst into a fit 
of uncontrollable laughter. 

“Oh, Hilary,” she said, when she had recov- 
ered her breath. “You are incorrigible. You are 
simply too ridiculous to be angry with.” 

“Wha — What,” replied the meretricious one. 
“Do you mean to say you don’t think it is a rat- 
tling good idea 2” 

“I’d rather not say what I think of it,” con- 
fessed Doris, “but I don’t find it so convincing as 
you do. I shall want a much better proof of your 
sincerity than that.” 

“My dear Doris, it’s a 'dead cert.’ ” 

“I daresay, but I’m always afraid of 'dead 
certs.’ I had one last Derby Day and it cost me 
two and sixpence.” 

“Well, of course, if you won’t listen to rea- 
son ” 

“My dear boy,” she interrupted, “I’m quite as 
anxious not to make a mistake as you are, and 
since you’ve been trying experiments, I’m going to 
do the same.” 

“You don’t mean to say you intend to — 
to ” He seemed to find it difficult to com- 

plete the sentence. 

“To follow your example, were you going to 


24 


The Third Party 

say? Oh, dear, no. My plan isn’t in the least 
like yours — I’m simply going to disappear for a 
year.” 

“But how can you do that?” 

“By not letting you know where I am. That 
should be a far better test of your honour and 
fidelity and all that sort of thing, as you call it — 
and if at the end of that time you can persuade 
me you are still as devoted to me as you pretend 
to be now, I may perhaps believe it.” 

“But anything may happen in a year,” he pro- 
tested. 

“Of course it may — especially if you carry your 
experiment too far with ladies like Kissie Toots. 
Take care you don’t get in such a tangle that you 
can’t get out of it.” 

“That’s as much as to say you can’t trust me.” 

“Well, perhaps it is. You see, a husband with 
your imagination would always be an anxiety to 
any woman.” 

As Hilary Chester sauntered back to his club 
he thought it deuced odd that any girl — and espe- 
cially his own Doris — should find it possible to 
doubt him for a moment. 


CHAPTER II 


RELATING TO THE POTTINGERS 

I T will have been seen that Doris was quite 
capable of holding her own even with so 
specious and plausible a reasoner as Hilary Ches- 
ter. She was a girl with tolerably clear judgment 
and plenty of common sense, and she saw the folly 
of being angry with a man who was so supremely 
unconscious of his own peccadillos. If not pre- 
cisely in love she was by no means indifferent to 
him, and his perfectly unconscious egotism merely 
amused her. She was in no danger of making a 
fool of herself and indulged in no exaggerated 
dream of his masculine perfections. She found 
him good tempered, generous, and moderately 
attentive, and she had met few other men who 
had so many good qualities to their credit. But 
she was equally conscious of his shortcomings and 
realized they were not likely to be cured by fault- 
finding. Time alone could prove his sincerity 
and by that test she was determined to abide. 

25 


26 


The Third Party 

Aunt Ermyntrude entirely agreed with her. 

“I am so glad, dear child,” said that estimable 
spinster, “you have decided so wisely. I should 
like to have seen you comfortably settled in an 
establishment of your own, of course, but precipi- 
tation is always unwise, and if dear Maria can 
arrange matters with the Pottingers, Fm sure it 
would be the very best thing that could happen.” 

The result was that a week later Doris had been 
formally engaged as companion and amanuensis 
to Mrs. Pottinger, of Sunnymead Cottage, Berk- 
shire. 

Christopher Pottinger, M.P., the illustrious 
founder of “The Social Purity League,” famous 
for his collection of Peruvian Orchids, was a 
notable figure in the “House” if only by reason 
of his generous expanse of white waistcoat and 
the unique blossom which invariably occupied his 
button-hole. His air of complaisant self-ap- 
proval and the benevolent smile, so often referred 
to in the columns of the “Augean Sweeper,” which 
he had cultivated for years till the habit had be- 
come second nature, seemed to lend an added 
dignity even to that illustrious assembly. Prob- 
ably no one could have explained how it was, but 


Relating to the Pottingers 27 

Christopher Pottinger occupied quite a conspic- 
uous place in the public eye and enjoyed a posi- 
tion which his detractors did not hesitate to say 
he was quite unworthy to fill. No doubt they 
envied his popularity, and popular he certainly 
was. Few minor politicians had their features so 
frequently reproduced in the illustrated halfpenny 
papers, or were accorded such generous space in 
the way of eulogistic or anecdotal paragraphs, as 
the honourable member for Dockford. His per- 
sonal appearance was familiar to everybody and 
his counterfeit presentment was always a welcome 
feature in the semi-religious weeklies. It beamed 
from the page with a placid benignity that was 
quite impressive. His smile was really a great as- 
set. Even the man in the street approved of it. 
But it appealed to the women most. Elderly 
spinsters treasured his latest portrait secretly, and 
matrons from Homerton to Hammersmith were 
unanimous in declaring his expression seraphic. 
He was a great favorite. 

The “Augean Sweeper,” the weekly organ of 
“The Social Purity League” — more familiarly 
known amongst those zealous custodians of moral- 
ity as “The Sweeper” — invariably contained some 
inspiring anecdote of the great man, though it 


28 


The Third Party 

was said by some unfriendly critics that the regu- 
larity with which these stories appeared could be 
explained by the fact that Pottinger owned the 
paper. Whether this was true or no, “The 
Sweeper” certainly took a deep interest in that 
embryo statesman. It devoted pages to verbatim 
reports of his speeches to his Dockford constitu- 
ents. It described in glowing terms the wonders 
of his orchid houses. Its privileged subscribers 
were permitted to gaze on photographic reproduc- 
tions of his newest motor car in which the illus- 
trious owner was seated, or even on one of those 
intimate studies of his domestic life described 
as “Christopher Pottinger in his study” or, as a 
pleasing variation, in the act of feeding his pet 
canary with a lump of sugar. 

His press agent was undoubtedly both clever 
and energetic. 

Of his antecedents but little was known. It 
was generally understood he had made a consid- 
erable fortune by speculations in Rubber, and as 
he was ambitious, a parliamentary career seemed 
to offer him the most alluring prospect. His hopes 
had been realized. He was a success. No one 
knew why, but the fact was indisputable. Some 
men have a genius for getting on, though it may 


Relating to the Pottingers 29 

be difficult to discover by what means they do 
it. Pottinger was neither brilliant nor particularly 
imaginative but he contrived to get ahead of others 
who were. He had several times figured promi- 
nently in important parliamentary committees and 
once even upon a mission of enquiry concerning 
a matter of national interest, and it had been 
vaguely whispered that a seat in the cabinet might 
not be beyond his dreams. He was therefore su- 
premely satisfied with the progress he had made 
and revelled in his growing popularity. 

During the parliamentary session he was accus- 
tomed to occupy a set of chambers in St. James's 
Street, joining his family for the week-end at his 
country place, “Crow’s Nest.” Since he had pur- 
chased the freehold of that small but charming 
estate, its fame had become widespread. His press 
agent had seen to that. The house, though com- 
paratively small, was lavishly furnished. Pot- 
tinger had the rudimentary instincts of an art 
collector. He liked curious and expensive things 
for the joy of ownership, and he was rich enough 
to pay for them. 

If he preferred a cottage to a castle it was a 
matter of policy. From his individual standpoint 
it was a better publicity proposition, as our Ameri- 


30 


The Third Party 

can friends would call it, and he believed in pub- 
licity. He was a^^thing but a modest man but 
he liked to pose as one. He had the astuteness to 
notice that all really great men were, and imita- 
tion is easy. So his invaluable press agent made 
the most of the cottage. “It is another instance,” 
remarked “The Sweeper,” “of the innate sim- 
plicity of the noble mind. To such, vulgar osten- 
tation is anathema.” 

It was in early Spring that Doris arrived at 
“Crow’s Nest” in the capacity of companion to 
Louisa Pottinger. She had pictured an elderly 
matron after the stiff and formal pattern of 
Maria Caversham, instead of which she was 
greeted by a good looking, genial lady of forty, 
who received her with a most affable welcome. 
It is certain she would have responded to this ad- 
vance in the same spirit, but the baleful glare of 
other eyes was upon her, and she became pain- 
fully conscious that she was undergoing a critical 
scrutiny from a tall, angular woman with a large 
Roman nose and piercing, ferret like eyes, who 
was introduced as “My sister, Miss Maxwell.” 
She was anything but prepossessing. 

Miss Maxwell stared at Doris with such ob- 
vious disapproval and an expression so frigid, that 


Relating to the Pottingers 31 

the poor girl’s heart sank into her boots and she 
could only mutter some perfunctory acknowledg- 
ment which she felt was stupid and inadequate. 
It was an unfortunate beginning and for two or 
three weeks a feeling of constraint, which she 
found impossible to throw off in the dominating 
presence of Miss Maxwell, quite concealed her 
natural vivacity. 

Janet Maxwell disapproved of most people, 
especially of young and pretty girls. If they 
were healthy and high spirited she called them 
unfeminine. If light hearted and amusing, they 
were frivolous. She preferred the anaemic, spec- 
tacled, blue-stocking Lydia Crabtree for example. 
Lydia had a drab complexion, straight thin hair 
brushed tightly back from a bulging forehead, and 
prominent teeth like a rabbit’s. 

Lydia was evidently her idea of femininity. 
“Such a soulful intellectual girl,” she told her 
sister. “It is a great pity you did not engage her 
as your companion instead of that stuck up doll 
who, I’ll be bound to say, thinks herself as good 
as you arej’ 

“I really don’t see why she shouldn’t,” re- 
marked the placid Louisa. “She comes of a very 
good family — probably better than ours.” 


32 


The Third Party 

“Rubbish ! How can you speak of a mere de- 
pendent like that 4 ? Any girl who has to earn her 
living should be kept in her place. She should 
be taught to realise her position. Only the other 
day she presumed to address me before I had 
even noticed her. She’ll not do that again in a 
hurry.” 

“My dear Janet, I hope you didn’t speak un- 
kindly to her.” 

“There you go. You are afraid of hurting 
her feelings, perhaps. Well, I’m not, thank good- 
ness. I spoke my mind, at any rate. You would 
spoil anyone. I suppose before long you’ll be 
treating her as an equal.” 

“I should be sorry to think I was not doing so 
now, Janet, and I must ask you not to interfere 
in any way with Miss Mayne, whom I consider is 
a very charming and well behaved girl.” 

“Of course if you feel like that about her there’s 
nothing more to be said,” snapped Miss Maxwell, 
her fierce little eyes glittering angrily. “I’m quite 
aware it’s no business of mine, and if you choose 
to make a fool of the girl, and yourself too, it’s 
not my affair.” 

And so the discussion ended. 

The next day Miss Maxweil took her depar- 



b 


THE PARLOUR MAID WAS NOW BEAMING WITH GOOD HUMOUR 




























































































































Relating to the Potting ers 33 

ture, after presenting each of the servants with a 
small paper covered volume entitled 

“WOMAN’S MISSION 
and 

MAN’S SUBMISSION” 

By Lydia Crabtree , B. A. 

As an acknowledgment of the energetic ser- 
vices she had exacted from each and all of them 
during her month’s visit, the gift failed to excite 
their enthusiasm, but previous experience of that 
lady’s liberality was not of a sort to raise wild 
hopes and as the cook remarked, “They had no 
call to be surprised at anything.” 

Miss Maxwell’s withdrawal from “Crow’s 
Nest” had an immediate and remarkable effect. 
Everything seemed changed as if by magic. An 
air of depression, which had permeated the house- 
hold, was replaced by an atmosphere almost ex- 
hilarating. The cook, whose temperament was 
of the acidulated variety, became as sweet as 
honey. Curtiss, the nice looking parlour-maid, 
who had been inclined to be sullen, was now 
beaming with good humour, and Parkyns, the 
highly respectable butler, whose frigid aloofness 


34 The Third Party 

had been quite a source of embarrassment to 
everyone, once more became human. Even 
Louisa was changed. Always placid and amiable, 
she now grew quite animated, and so completely 
broke down the slight barrier of reserve which 
Doris naturally felt in her new surroundings, that 
they were soon the best of friends. 

The day after Miss Maxwell’s departure for 
London, Louisa and Doris were sewing under a 
shady tree on the lawn and Pottinger himself was 
momentarily expected from town. Louisa was in 
a talkative mood. She was greatly interested in 
the girl, who had quickly been won over by 
Louisa’s unaffected kindness, and had told her of 
her life in India and of her engagement to Hilary 
Chester. There was something about Louisa Pot- 
tinger that invited confidence. 

“Never hesitate to come to me in your 
troubles,” she told Doris in her kind impulsive 
way. “I know what a comfort it is to have some- 
one to confide in at times. I’ve so often found 
the want of it myself when Janet has been here. 
Her ideas are peculiar, as you have seen. She 
prefers the Lydia Crabtree sort of woman. I never 
could understand her or make out who she takes 
after. She’s not a bit like me or Peter either — 


Relating to the Pottingers 35 

that’s my brother — you’ll like Peter — he’s a dear, 
but he swears so dreadfully. He was a sailor, you 
know, and even admirals seem to have such bad 
habits in that respect. And he’s always so much 
worse when Janet is here, but perhaps that is only 
natural. They are always disagreeing about some- 
thing and then Peter forgets himself.” 

“Pm sure I shall like him,” said Doris, “he 
sounds nice.” 

“He and I have always been such good friends, 
though we are not in the least alike. He is so 
matter of fact and I — well, perhaps you’d 
scarcely believe it, seeing the sort of life I live 
down here — but I am really intensely romantic.” 

“How delightful — You dear thing — Oh ” 

she blushed and hesitated, “I didn’t mean to say 
that but ” 

“But I don’t mind in the least. I like it. I 
want you to think about me in that way — and if 
you feel it, why not say it? You and I must be 
real friends and you are not to think you are under 
any obligation to me for being here. It is quite 
the other way. I’m ever so grateful to you for 
coming, you are so sympathetic, and it is such 
a relief to have someone like that to talk to. All 
the people round here are either stupid or prosy 


36 


The Third Party 

— so intensely parochial, you know. They’ve pos- 
itively no imagination. When they make a call 
they always repeat the same silly old platitudes 
and their only topic of conversation is sure to be 
something scandalous. They are even worse at 
home, and their dreadful garden parties bore me 
to tears. They behave like people who live in- 
side a ring fence and imagine it represents the 
world. Their ideas are so small. If they can 
pick a neighbour to pieces they are as busy as 
vultures. Dear old Colonel Redwood is the only 
decent one amongst them. He is so frank and 
breezy — it’s quite like getting a breath of sea air 
to speak to him. I’m afraid I’m beginning to hate 
the country.” 

“Perhaps that is because you see too much of 
it. You should get Mr. Pottinger to take you to 
town for a change sometimes.” 

“I wanted him to take a house in London this 
season, but he said that would mean social duties 
for which he has no time. You have no idea what 
a busy man he is. He never spares himself — he 
absolutely sacrifices himself for others. What with 
his parliamentary work and his keen interest in 
‘The Social Purity League,’ he never has a mo- 
ment to himself and his week-ends down here are 


Relating to the Pottingers 37 

the only period of rest the poor fellow can get. It 
would be so selfish to allow my own wishes to be 
an additional burden to him.” 

“But I don’t see how they could,” argued Doris 
— “I can quite understand Mr. Pottinger has a 
great deal to do but I don’t see what difference 
your being in town could make.” 

“He says he would be so much away from me 
that I should feel lonely.” 

“He might say the same thing here — I’m sure 
London would do you good and if it were me I 
should insist on going.” 

“Well, it is too late to think of this year, I’m 
afraid. The season will be over in a fortnight 
and I don’t want to be there during the tripper 
invasion — I have to run up one day next week to 
do some shopping and, if Christopher can find 
time, I might stay in town for the night and get 
him to take me to the opera — I love the opera, 
don’t you?” 

At this moment the apologetic warning of a Ga- 
briel horn announced an approaching motor car 
and a few seconds later Pottinger’s big “Rolls- 
Royce” swung into the drive and deposited that 
hard worked politician at the door of his Ar- 
cadian retreat. As usual, he was spick and span 


38 


The Third Party 

— in his luxurious limousine he escaped the soil 
of travel, and emerged from it as from a band- 
box. Nor did he show any signs of the fatigue 
which his strenuous labours must have imposed 
on him. On the contrary, he was looking ex- 
tremely fit as he crossed the lawn to greet his 
wife with that lofty air of proprietorship which 
he always assumed towards her. He also fa- 
voured Doris with one of his most popular photo- 
graphic smiles. Being a strikingly pretty girl, he 
approved of her. He admired nice looking women 
and unfortunately his leadership of the Social 
Purity Campaign brought him in contact with 
so many whose claims to beauty were of the nega- 
tive order. To be quite candid they were mostly 
frumps. Some people were unkind enough to call 
them hideous frumps but that, no doubt, was sheer 
malice. At any rate, it was an agreeable change 
to see a fresh young girl like Doris, and as she 
was about to rise he graciously waved his hand for 
her to remain. 

“You have all the best of it down here, ,, he 
said, settling himself amidst the cushioned luxuri- 
ance of a garden chair. “So delightfully restful 
after the turmoil of town. You can have no idea 
of what it is like up there.” 


Relating to the Pottingers 39 

“It’s just the turmoil I love,” replied Louisa. 
“Pm pining to hear the noise of the London traffic 
again and smell that wonderful smell in the 
streets that you never find anywhere else.” 

Pottinger looked at his wife with an expression 
of mild reproof — he considered her remark ridicu- 
lous but merely said, “What an extraordinary idea 
— I never heard of such a thing.” 

“Surely you must have noticed it — It’s the most 
delightful thing in the world — a faint, warm, 
tarry smell that seems to be mingled with the 
odour of flowers and fruit and newly cut glass. 
It’s nearly always like that round Hill Street and 
Berkley Square in the Summer time.” 

“I must say I prefer 'Crow’s Nest,’ ” said Pot- 
tinger, ignoring her rhapsody and selecting a cigar 
from his case which he forthwith proceeded to 
light. 

“But you wouldn’t if you had as much of it 
as I do, Christopher. I have just been telling Miss 
Mayne I really must go up one day next week 
for some shopping and I’ve been thinking, dear, 
how nice it would be if you could book seats for 
the opera and I could stay the night in town. 
Next Thursday is the last night of the Season, 
you know, and it’s going to be very special. Ca- 


40 The Third Party 

ruso and Melba in ‘La Boheme.’ Then we could 
come down together on Friday.” 

“Um — Yes — that would be very nice indeed — 
but I’m afraid it’s quite impossible — quite — at all 
events, on Thursday.” 

“Oh, Christopher, don’t you think you might 
manage it for once?” pleaded Louisa. “It would 
be such a delightful change and I’m simply bored 
to death for want of a little excitement.” 

He patted her hand soothingly and in his most 
melodious platform voice, in which the sympa- 
thetic stop was skillfully introduced, assured her 
it was out of the question. 

“I am profoundly sorry to disappoint you, my 
dear, but it is really impossible. I am — er — ir- 
revocably pledged for Thursday — Let me see,” 
he closed his eyes and poised his cigar between 
his first two fingers while he mentally recalled 
his engagements. “Ah! Yes, to be sure — a com- 
mittee — no, two committees in the morning. The 
House in the afternoon — when I am to second the 
third reading of the bill for the Dockford Har- 
bour Extension and — er — yes — in the evening — 
another most important — er — committee.” 

“Well, Christopher, it can’t be helped, I sup- 
pose,” sighed poor Louisa, “but as I must go to 


Relating to the Pottingers 41 

town in any case I shall ask Janet to meet me at 
Paddington and help me with my shopping. She 
has such a wonderful eye for bargains and al- 
ways knows where they can be found. You see, 
dear,” she said to Doris, when he presently left 
them to visit his pet orchids, “you see how it is 
— my husband is the most self-sacrificing man I 
ever met. I know how it pains him to disappoint 
me, but he is always like that.” 

“Always disappointing you, do you mean 2” 
“Oh, dear no. I meant to say that he has such 
lofty ideals of his duty to his country. He sets 
them before everything. You have no idea what 
a noble nature he has — how unselfish, how stead- 
fast, how resolute in all he attempts — It hurts him 
to deny me anything but he never allows me to 
see the pain it causes him. He knows it would 
only distress me, poor fellow, so he appears to 
treat it lightly— One cannot help admiring a man 
like that. I sometimes think there isn’t such an- 
other husband in the world.” 

Doris made no reply but she rather hoped there 
wasn’t. 


CHAPTER III 


THE FORTUNE-TELLER 

O N the floor above an art dealer’s shop in 
Grafton Street was an elegant suite of 
rooms which it had become a fashionable craze 
for all the smart people in London to visit. All 
day long neat broughams, or the newest of landau- 
lettes, stopped at the side door of this establish- 
ment to deposit well dressed women, both young 
and old, to say nothing of those who came on 
foot, and whose appearance was equally opulent. 
Occasionally the stream of feminine visitors was 
varied by the arrival of a mere man — in fact quite 
a number of them came — and every week this 
number increased. They were of as varied a type, 
as to age and appearance, as the women, but they 
entered the door with less assurance. There was 
a self-conscious shyness about them that was 
rather curious. They seemed to hesitate, and ob- 
viously had to pull themselves together before 
crossing the threshold after an enquiring glance 
42 


The Fortune-Teller 43 

at the neat brass plate which bore the simple 
inscription 

SATANELLA 

To the uninitiated, this cryptic announcement 
conveyed nothing, but to others it revealed the 
abiding place of the most fashionable fortune- 
teller in London. 

Her vogue was extraordinary. To the slaves 
of social convention, the season would have been 
incomplete without at least one visit to the salon 
of society’s pet mystic. 

Mrs. Van Stuyvesant Dibbs, the American mil- 
lionairess, who had been entertained by English 
Royalty, and whose handsome and unconven- 
tional daughter was affianced to a Russian Grand 
Duke, had declared she was the most wonderful 
thing that ever happened. 

“My dear Archbishop,” she had said to an il- 
lustrious prelate, beside whom she sat a dinner 
as a guest of the Prime Minister, “you may talk 
of the Witch of Endor, and the whole tribe of 
your old prophets, but they’re not in the same 
hemisphere with that delightful Satanella. We 
are all just crazy about her and if you ever happen 
to be in any doubt about fixing up one of your 


44 


The Third Party 

‘Livings’ or ‘Cures’ or whatever you call them, 
you might do worse than take her advice on the 
subject.” 

And so the fame of Satanella was spread 
abroad, and an energetic young lady secretary was 
kept busy all day in entering appointments at the 
rate of two guineas a visit. 

Two years before the advent of Satanella, Miss 
Rose Gaythorne had been earning a precarious 
two guineas weekly as chorus lady at the Al- 
cazar. She was bright and attractive, but had no 
more chance of becoming a star than any other 
of the fifty young ladies who had been selected 
for their good looks rather than for any conspicu- 
ous ability, and Rose, having more than the usual 
supply of common sense, quickly realized the fact. 
She was a nice girl and a good girl and she wanted 
to make money. The question was how to do it. 
She occupied a modest bed-sitting-room in a 
dreary terrace off Baker Street, and her landlady, 
whose apartments were more frequently “to let” 
than otherwise, continued to make ends meet by 
predicting the future to local shop-girls and ser- 
vant maids, for the modest sum of two and six- 
pence. 

Madame Delaforce had quite a local reputa- 


45 


The Fortune-Teller 

tion but her clients were neither numerous nor 
wealthy, and frequently the half crown was ac- 
cepted in two installments. In such cases, how- 
ever, the astute lady reserved the tit-bit of pro- 
phetic hotch-potch till the balance was paid. 
Madame Delaforce, familiarly addressed by the 
lodgers as “Ma,” was a kindly soul. The attend- 
ance she offered her tenants was not elaborate, 
but she dealt fairly by them and the time hon- 
oured kitchen cat was unknown at 36 Bendigo 
Terrace. Their cold joints appeared, and re-ap- 
peared, till nothing but the bone remained. When 
the city clerk, in the third floor back, was taken 
ill, Ma Delaforce was the kindest and most as- 
siduous of nurses. She was good to everyone and 
everyone liked her. Even the gouty and irascible 
old bachelor, who occupied the dining-room floor 
and swore heavily at Emma, the char-lady, was 
affability itself when, as occasionally happened, 
Ma Delaforce carried in the breakfast herself. 
When Rose returned from the theatre, cold and 
tired and half envying the girls who always 
seemed to have supper engagements at Romanos’ 
or The Savoy, and vaguely wondering why she 
should so persistently refuse to share in them, 
Ma Delaforce was always there to invite her to 


46 


The Third Party 

her own modest sitting-room, where some hot soup 
or coffee was sure to be ready for them both. If 
“Ma” had had a lucky day — she had been known 
to take as much as twelve and sixpence on one 
occasion — there was no need for her to announce 
the fact, the supper table proclaimed it. Either 
a savoury dish of fried sausages and mashed po- 
tatoes, or a plate of ham and beef from the cook- 
shop, flanked by a large bottle of Guiness’s stout, 
were sufficient evidence of the day’s prosperity. 
Rose loved these impromptu feasts. She was con- 
vinced that no Savoy banquet could be half so 
delicious, and when Ma Delaforce, whom she 
always called “Mardie,” crowned the proceed- 
ings by reading her palm and predicting fame and 
fortune within a year, she was quite content to 
believe it and felt sure there was no happier girl 
in London than she. 

One morning Rose received a letter from a 
firm of lawyers, informing her that by the death 
of a distant relative she was the possessor of one 
hundred pounds. This unexpected affluence 
stirred her business imagination. How could she 
best employ such a fortune? It was too small to 
invest but she determined it should make money 
for her some way or other. Why not follow the 


The Fortune-Teller 


47 


example of Ma Delaforce and try palmistry? 
She had been genuinely interested in it and had 
read all Mardie’s books on the subject, but she 
knew her methods were old fashioned., Mardie 
had no imagination, and lacked the vital essen- 
tial of being an instinctive judge of character. 
But even she could depend on taking at least 
two pounds a week — sometimes three. Surely she 
could do better than that — double at least. She 
talked it over with Mardie. 

“My idea is to take a room in a good neigh- 
bourhood,” she explained, “and spend a few 
pounds in advertising — Not in the papers, of 
course — I couldn’t afford that — but I might get 
some bills printed and employ some board men 
to walk up and down the street. It might attract 
a few people, and they would send others. I should 
still stay here, of course, and at first I shouldn’t 
give up the theatre, in case my venture didn’t 
turn out all right. Now what do you think of 
it?” 

Ma Delaforce thought the idea excellent. 
She was sure Rose would be successful and prom- 
ised to put her up to all the tricks of the trade. 

The next morning Rose walked down Oxford 
Street on a quest for rooms and in a corner house, 


48 The Third Party 

not far from the Circus, saw in a second floor win- 
dow the following announcement 

AN 

OFFICE 
TO LET 

Enquire below 

She entered the shop beneath and enquired for 
particulars. 

“Well, Miss,” explained the shopman, “you 
see it’s like this. The premises are coming down 
soon — we can’t say exactly when — and the gov- 
ernor can’t let for more than three months. Per- 
haps that would be an objection.” 

On the contrary, Rose thought it wouldn’t, so 
she was sent upstairs in charge of a shop-boy and 
found a very pleasant room overlooking the side 
street, with a tiny vestibule and use of the pri- 
vate entrance in Dash Street. It was exactly the 
thing. She would certainly take it, and then it 
occurred to her she had omitted the important 
question as to rent. She returned to the shop 
in a flutter of excitement. 

“Well, Miss, we have been getting £80 a year,” 
her heart fell — “but being, as I explained, only 
a short let, the governor is willing to take half 


The Fortune-Teller 49 

the usual rent and would have it nicely cleaned 
down for you .” 

She made a rapid calculation — three months 
certain at £40 a year would mean £10 — For an- 
other £10 she could buy or hire the little furni- 
ture that was necessary. Another £30 for a 
month’s advertising would exhaust half her capi- 
tal. It might be a rash venture but she would 
chance it. She believed she could make good — 
at any rate it was worth trying, she thought. Ac- 
cordingly Ma Delaforce was taken to inspect the 
rooms, and expressed such genuine approval that 
the bargain was struck — and references as to her 
lodger’s respectability having been supplied by 
the same good lady — and the sum of ten pounds 
paid for rent in advance, Rose became the happy 
tenant, with a fortnight allowed her for deco- 
rating and making ready. She now set feverishly 
to work. Mardie attended a sale and secured 
a table, an easy chair, a carpet and other odd- 
ments at such a ridiculously low figure that Rose 
was well within her estimate, and her only re- 
maining anxiety was to hit on some simple and 
effective way of making herself known. 

The idea came to her by accident. Looking 
through an assortment of old music outside a sec- 


50 The Third Party 

ond-hand book-seller’s in the Charing Cross 
Road, she found a mid-Victorian score of which 
the portrait of Louisa Pyne and Mr. Harrison 
were depicted on the cover as singing in the opera 
of 

“satanella” 

The lady in black muslin decorated with silver 
stars looked mystic, and the name pleased her. 

How well it would look. 

CONSULT 

SATANELLA 

It was an inspiration. She knew a young ar- 
tist who would design a small poster for her. 
A striking masked face, she thought would be 
attractive. She decided to have some lithos made, 
and send half a dozen scarecrows to perambu- 
late between Oxford Circus and the Marble Arch. 
In less than three weeks everything was ready, 
and by the combined efforts of Mardie and 
Emma, the char-lady, the rooms were in apple pie 
order. The latter shed tears of pride as she called 
Rose’s attention to the brilliant lustre of the brass 
work and the perfection of the stone enamel. 

“You’d ’ardly blee’ve what a style they was 


The Fortune-Teller 51 

in, Miss. It was ’art breakin to look at ’em. And 
you see what they’re like now.” 

They certainly looked very well, but Rose no- 
ticed that Emma’s account included two large 
boxes of enamaline and four tins of brass polish, 
which for one small grate, a diminutive brass 
fender, and a couple of door handles, seemed ex- 
cessive. Also, as Emma had a flushed face, and 
smelt strongly of fiery liquor, it was not unrea- 
sonable to suppose that some of these patent pol- 
ishes — or other ingredients of equivalent value — 
had been taken internally. 

To do her justice, she made no secret of occa- 
sionally needing a little stimulant. “I get that 
low, I do,” she explained to her intimates, “that 
’ave it I must — You’d never b’leeve ’alf what 
I’ve gorn through, not if I told yer. And what 
I ’ad to put up wiv from my good for nothin’ 
’usband, was somethink awful — But when, my 
dear, ’ee sold up the ’ome an’ blamed me cos it 
didn’t fetch more nor what it did, it was agoin’ 
a bit too fer. The low ’ound — ’Ee acksherly 
blarsted me to blazes, ’ee did. I weren’t agoin’ 
to put up wiv none of ’is blarstin’ so I up an’ told 
’im to go to ’ell, an’ I arn’t seen ’im since.” 

She meant well, however, and had really 


52 


The Third Party 

proved resourceful. She had, for instance, found 
an impish looking red haired, freckled faced boy, 
who, for five shillings a week and fourpence a 
day lunch money, with a second-hand page’s uni- 
form thrown in, was to occupy the Lilliputian ves- 
tibule and receive clients. Rose, herself attired 
in a black gauzy drapery, spangled with stars, 
and wearing a silk mask, awaited events in the 
inner room. 

For three days the half dozen scarcecrows am- 
bled listlessly up and down Oxford Street, bear- 
ing aloft and below their swaying boards which 
invited the town to “Consult Satanella,” and — 
nothing happened. 

The freckled face boy in the outer office 
drummed his heels on the floor and whistled 
lustily for the want of better employment, and 
Rose began to think she had started on a hopeless 
venture. But next morning a wonderful thing 
happened. An elderly, important-looking gentle- 
man entered the vestibule in a rather breathless 
condition and desired to know if Satanella were 
disengaged. Rose could hear what was said and 
had just time to draw on her mask when the visi- 
tor was shown in. 

For the first time she felt absurdly nervous and 


The Fortune-Teller 


53 


uncomfortable. To begin with, she hadn’t ex- 
pected a male visitor, and an uncomfortable feel- 
ing possessed her that she was making an utter 
fool of herself. She would have been quite at 
her ease with some credulous woman, whose man- 
ner and remarks might probably indicate what she 
wished to be told, but here was a very different 
sort of person. There was nothing romantic about 
him — he was solid and prosperous looking and, 
though he smiled amiably, there was something 
in his manner that impressed her with a sense 
of his dogged and purposeful effort. “Such a 
man should carry through anything he at- 
tempted,” she thought. “I’ll tell him so at all 
events.” 

“I’ve just seen your advertisements,” he said, 
“and a sudden, and I must admit, curious im- 
pulse persuaded me to avail myself of your in- 
vitation.” 

Rose remembered that silence is golden, and 
merely bent her head by way of reply. 

“I may tell you at once that I don’t believe in 
this fortune-telling nonsense, but, as I said just 
now, I merely obeyed a sudden impulse. This 
morning I received advice on a certain subject 
from two different quarters, each diametrically 


54 


The Third Party 

opposed to the other. In business parlance we 
call them tips, and they referred to certain shares 
in which I am interested. Advice number one 
said, 'Buy all you can,’ number two said, 'Don’t 
touch them’ — Personally I believe in number one 
— but advice number two came from a man quite 
as qualified to judge as the other. I was naturally 
puzzled — How shall I decide? I asked myself — 
Just then my eye caught your bill. 'Consult Sata- 
nella.’ 'I’ll be hanged if I don’t,’ I said — and 
here I am.” 

Brief as his explanation was it had allowed 
Rose to recover her composure. 

Here is a man, she thought, who has prospered 
— he is not brilliant or intellectual, but he has 
some quality that wins success. It may be he 
possesses that elusive thing called “luck” — the 
chances are that his instinct is surer than other 
people’s judgment — “Let me see your hand,” she 
said. The obvious lines confirmed her opinion — 
A mere glance was sufficient. “Thank you — that 
is all I wanted. Will you tell me if the amount 
you proposed to speculate on the advice of num- 
ber one was a large one?” 

“I should stand to lose a thousand pounds.” 

“And how much to win?” 


55 


The Fortune-Teller 

“Ten, fifteen, perhaps twenty thousand.” 

“And you are prepared to act on my advice?” 

“I am; not that I believe in it, mind you, but 
because I felt I would accept your decision, as 
a man may toss a coin, and decide according to 
the way it falls.” 

“Then why come to me? Why not toss the 
coin?” 

“Pm hanged if I know — I prefer to hear what 
you have to say.” 

“Very well. Then invest in number one.” 

“Right! Pll go to my brokers at once.” 

He fumbled in his pocket and produced a sov- 
ereign and a shilling. 

“I presume that is correct?” he said. “I be- 
lieve it is the usual thing.” 

She looked at the guinea and blushed beneath 
her mask. She had not even thought of what 
her fee was to be. If the idea had vaguely crossed 
her mind it was perhaps to charge five shillings — 
or perhaps — to prosperous looking people — seven 
and six, but a guinea was beyond her wildest 
dreams. However, she said nothing and her visi- 
tor departed. 

That afternoon no less than three ladies called. 
They were well dressed and obviously delighted 


56 


The Third Party 

by what she told them. Remembering what her 
first client had said about “the usual fee,” she 
ventured to charge them half a guinea, and it 
was cheerfully paid. The next morning brought 
two more visitors, and four others came in the 
afternoon. At one o’clock on Saturday, when she 
closed to go to her matinee, she found she had 
taken exactly nineteen pounds. She spent five 
of it on a present for Mardie, and ordered a pair 
of pheasants and a bottle of champagne, as her 
contribution towards the Sunday dinner, at which 
token of her lodger’s affection Mardie wept for 
sheer happiness. 

During the second week business slacked down 
a little, but this was explained by a discovery 
made by the ubiquitous Emma, who, arriving at 
the rooms one morning about eleven, declared she 
had seen “them lazy varmints as orter be paradink 
in Oxford Street, a-sittin’ smokin’ on the kerb 
of Banks’s mews round the corner, with their 
boardses propped up against the wall and drinkin’ 
porter outer quart pots like ’eathen.” 

Freckle face, being instantly dispatched to ver- 
ify this alarming statement, and finding it cor- 
rect, had — under instructions — threatened dire 
penalties for their neglect, so, finding to their dis- 


The Fortune-Teller 


57 


gust they were under observation, the scarecrows 
sullenly resumed their march, being allowed no 
more than their just hours of repose by the watch- 
ful youth. 

By the end of the month Rose had cleared her 
initial expenses and had fifty pounds to the good. 

One morning on arriving at Oxford Street she 
found Freckle-face by the half landing window 
engaged in hurling paper darts at a friend, who 
was employed at the grocer’s shop across the 
street. On seeing Rose he jerked his head in the 
direction of his den and said : 

“ ’E’s in there — there waren’t room for two of 
us so I came outside. ’E’s waitin’ for you.” 

“Who is?” 

“Don’t know ’is nyme. Old White Wesker 
with the flahr in ’is coat.” 

Rose opened the door and confronted her first 
client. 

“Ah! here you are,” he said genially — “I’ve 
been waiting for you. I er — I suppose you are 
Miss Satanella — Eh?” 

“Not in these clothes,” she said, smiling 
brightly. “At present I’m Miss Rose Gaythorne 
— Satanella is only on view during business 
hours.” 


58 


The Third Party 

“I see — and then she is unkind enough to con- 
ceal her charms under a mask — Too bad, I call 
it — I suppose you wonder what Pm here for?” 

She flashed her eye on him for an instant and 
knew what to say. 

“To tell me how much money you made by fol- 
lowing tip number one.” 

“Suppose I didn’t make anything?” 

“You didn’t lose! How much was it?” 

“Twenty- three thousand pounds!” 

“Why come and tell me what I know?” 

“Do you mean to say — hang it — er — my 
broker only settled the business yesterday — a clear 
profit of £23,000 and but for you I shouldn’t have 
made a penny.” 

“Why not?” 

“I am convinced that I should have followed 
number two.” 

“Then you feel you had your money’s worth, 
I hope. I don’t mind telling you now that I 
thought your fee a very liberal one. It’s the big- 
gest I ever had.” 

“Not nearly so large as you will soon be earn- 
ing, young lady. One good turn deserves an- 
other and I am willing to put you in the way of 
earning a fortune on your own account.” 


The Fortune-Teller 


59 


“That’s really very kind of you. I shall be 
awfully obliged if you can tell me how it’s to 
be done?” 

“I am quite serious, I assure you, Miss Gay- 
thorne, though you don’t appear to realise it. I’ve 
come in fact to er — make a business proposal. 
In the right surroundings, there should be a lot of 
money in this tom-foolery of yours. Oh, you 
mustn’t mind me. You don’t imagine I believed 
in the least if you were telling me right or wrong 
about number one and number two. You made 
a shot at it and it came off. If it hadn’t, I 
shouldn’t be here now. You know it was tom- 
foolery all the same, but you may not know 
what an extraordinary aptitude most people 
have for being made fools of. They are as 
eager to be taken in as hungry gudgeons are 
for bait — though they haven’t the intelligence 
to realise it. It all depends on how it is done. 
Now this is what I have to propose. I’m 
willing to furnish two or three rooms in the 
right neighbourhood, and do it well, and put you 
in them to receive the crowd who will be anxious 
to visit you when once they understand it is the 
right thing to do. There must be no street board 
advertising or anything of that sort — Nor the 


60 


The Third Party 

usual newspaper announcements either — It must 
be cleverly worked by paragraphs. They cost 
more but do more good. I’ve got the very man 
to manage it. That’s my part of the concern. 
Yours is to tell your visitors whatever you may 
think they wish to know and we — er — divide the 
profits.” 

“A partnership, in fact*?” 

* 'Substantially, yes — though of course my name 
must not be mentioned in connection with it. The 
arrangement will be a profound secret between 
you and me. What do you think of it?” 

"It sounds fascinating, but I scarcely under- 
stand why you are making me such an offer.” 

“To be quite candid — because I believe there 
is money in it. I came to you a month ago in 
obedience to a sudden impulse, and something of 
the same sort brings me here now. I am inclined 
to think the result will be equally fortunate.” 

“I suppose you don’t mind telling me to whom 
I am indebted for the suggestion?” 

“You may probably have heard of me — I am, 
if I may be permitted to say so, somewhat in the 
— er — public eye — hence my desire to remain be- 
hind the scenes. My name is Christopher Pot- 
tinger.” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE LURE OF A SIREN 

S ATANELLA’S advent within the precincts of 
Mayfair was heralded by a masterly series 
of paragraphs, anecdotes, and illustrated inter- 
views, which so thoroughly stirred public curi- 
osity that her rooms were soon besieged by a 
stream of visitors. They came in such numbers 
that appointments had frequently to be made a 
week in advance, and all day long the guineas 
continued to mount up steadily. By the end of 
the second year, when her prosperity was inevi- 
tably on the wane, she had made quite a snug lit- 
tle fortune and her very wide awake, rather 
than her “sleeping” partner, had every reason to 
be satisfied with his investment. 

In the early days of her new adventure, Rose 
had taken a small flat on the Chelsea Embank- 
ment where Ma Delaforce, having disposed of her 
responsibilities in Bendigo Terrace — had been in- 
stalled in the capacity of chatelaine and house- 
61 


62 


The Third Party 

keeper. There was a pretty drawing-room over- 
looking the river and Battersea Park, a small 
square vestibule — described by the landlord as a 
lounge hall — a miniature dining-room, and sleep- 
ing apartments for Rose, Mardie and their two 
maids. In this retreat Rose spent her few hours 
of leisure and both she and Mardie were su- 
premely happy. The only cloud that temporarily 
overshadowed them was provided by Emma, the 
char-lady. Her services were still retained to as- 
sist Jane, the cook, for a couple of hours every 
morning and to help with the washing up after 
dinner. Emma had never been quite dependable 
but, in periods of sobriety, was on the whole above 
the standard of her kind. As Mardie would say, 
she bottomed things, and really could clean thor- 
oughly when she had a mind to, but lately she 
had fallen from grace. In Bendigo Terrace she 
was in harmony with that dreary locality but in 
Chelsea she looked frankly disreputable and the 
house-parlour-maid ignored her scornfully. Emma 
was no longer to be relied upon. She frequently 
arrived — blear eyed and dishevelled — and inco- 
herently hinted at domestic strife which had <c Kep’ 
’er awyke the old blessed night.” During this 
period, she explained the repeated breakage of 


63 


The Lure of a Siren 

tumblers and teacups to her “bein’ that shaky 
that they jist slipped out o’ me ’ands like” and 
when — assisting in the dishing up of dinner — 
she had emptied the contents of the soup tureen 
down the sink, instead of the dish water, Cook 
turned and denounced her. Emma thereupon 
flopped into a chair and howled dismally, declar- 
ing she’d never been found fault with in orl ’er 
life and it was ’ard to come all the way from 
Marrybone Road — just to oblige — and then be 
took to task for a little accident as might ’appen 
to anybody. She was forgiven by Mardie, how- 
ever, and for a few days became sober again, but 
one evening Rose came home to find Mardie in 
great distress. 

“I’m afraid we shall have to get rid of Emma,” 
she declared. “Cook says she is never really sober 
— even when she seems to be — and since she has 
been working for some bachelor gentleman in Tite 
Street — where she goes before coming here — she 
always has with her a basket of provisions and a 
bottle of wine which she tells Cook he has given 
her. She arrived an hour ago seeming more mud- 
dled than usual and when I spoke to her about it, 
said she was feeling very low on account of King 
Belgium.” 


64 


The Third Party 

“Who’s King Belgium?” 

“You know King Leopold died the other day.” 

“She didn’t work for him, did she?” 

“Don’t be silly, dear, but it seems she is em- 
ployed by a young Belgian who is attache or some- 
thing of that sort at the Legation — ‘ ’Er pore dear 
young Master’ — she calls him. It appears he 
was very much upset by the news, and Emma said 
she felt it every bit as much, on his account, and 
was so miserable that he had given her a bottle 
of brandy to cheer her up.” 

“A likely story.” 

“She had the brandy, at all events, and half a 
cold chicken as well. I told her it looked very 
suspicious but she wasn’t the least bit abashed — 
‘ ’E guv ’em to me, bless ’is ’art — Take ’em and 
eat ’em and drink ’em — poor King Belgium’s 
dead and I don’t want ’em.’ ” 

“Well, Mardie, I don’t think we want her 
either, after that, do we? Give her a week’s 
money and let her go.” 

So that was the last of Emma. 

About this time Rose became engaged, and it 
caused her some anxiety. Amongst her admirers 
at the Alcazar, there was only one in whom she 
had taken the smallest interest. He had watched 


65 


The Lure of a Siren 

her with respectful and silent admiration from 
the stalls, but they had never met till he shad- 
owed her to the Theatrical Garden Party, where 
he found his divinity in possession of a flower 
stall and joyfully paid her five shillings for a 
rose. Naturally he improved the occasion and 
a frank intimacy sprang up between them — He 
was really a nice boy and she honestly liked him, 
so he was sometimes permitted to call at the flat. 
The intimacy grew and finally he proposed and 
she accepted him — conditionally. The Hon. Al- 
gernon Brockenhurst, younger son of the Earl of 
Sportington, being hopelessly infatuated, was pre- 
pared to accept any conditions. 

“Well, then,” said Rose, “you must first get 
your father's permission, and how you are going 
to do it passes my comprehension. You can't be 
surprised if Lord Sportington does not approve 
of me. A girl who was in the Alcazar chorus, 
and is now earning money by telling fortunes, is 
scarcely likely to appeal to him as a suitable 
daughter-in-law. He'll be furious.'' She pic- 
tured to herself his Lordship's wrath. 

“Not when he sees you, Rosey, darling. Be- 
sides, I have a real object in life now and mean 
to do things. That will buck the old boy tre- 


66 


The Third Party 

mendously. I’ve only to let him know that your 
influence has spurred me on and he’ll think no end 
of you.” 

“Well, I hope he may, but when you speak of 
‘doing things,’ what are you thinking of specially 
— it seems rather vague to me.” 

“Oh, heaps of things — I could take on the man- 
agement of some chap’s estate, perhaps — Awfully 
good billet, you know — nothin’ much to do — 
plenty of shootin’ and huntin’ — toppin’ salary 
and nice house thrown in.” 

“It sounds all right — I’m not sure if it’s easy 
to get, though.” 

“Well, I might try a secretaryship.” 

“You couldn’t keep a wife on that.” 

“Perhaps not, but I’ve three hundred a year 
of my own and there’ll be a bit more from the 
mater later on, to say nothin’ of what the old boy 
may do.” 

“And how are you going to set about it*? The 
secretaryship, I mean*?” 

“I scarcely know — I’m bound to hear of some- 
thin’ — if not I shall advertise in The Times’ and 
‘Mornin’ Post.’ ” 

“Pm afraid that wouldn’t be much good.” She 
paused for a moment as an idea seemed to strike 


The Lure of a Siren 67 

her. “I wonder,” she said at last, “if I could help 
you*?” 

“Eh? what! Do you think you could?” 

“I’m not certain. There’s a friend of mine 
who might do something — How would you like 
to be secretary to a member of Parliament?” 
she inquired mysteriously 

“By jove, the very thing — the Guv’s always 
sayin’ I ought to go into Parliament — four hun- 
dred quid a year and nothin’ to do for it — a job 
like that might put me in the way of pullin’ it 
off — Do you really mean there’s a chance?” 

“I shall have to find out and I must go to work 
very carefully. It would never do to let my friend 
know that you and I were conditionally en- 
gaged.” 

“Hang it all, I wish you wouldn’t say condi- 
tionally.” 

“I do say it, and mean it. It rests with you to 
make the condition unnecessary.” 

“Oh, all right — Don’t put on frills about it — 
a bargain’s a bargain anyway — but what do you 
mean by not lettin’ him know?” 

“Well, it’s perfectly ridiculous, of course, but 
he’s rather gone on me, you know, and frightfully 
jealous of anyone I’m interested in.” 


68 The Third Party 

“The infernal old bounder — do you mean to 


“Now don’t be absurd, Algy, or how am I go- 
ing to help you? You needn’t mind him — he’s 
been ever so useful and if I humour him and let 
him think I’m interested in him, it’s only because 
I find it’s never wise to quarrel with people who 
can do anything for you — If I’m very nice to 
him there’s no knowing what he may do.” 

“And it’s in a good cause, isn’t it? Well, fire 
away, I don’t mind, and if it comes off, I mean to 
have it out with the Guv’nor about our business. 
I’m jolly well sure he’ll come round when he sees 
what a rippin’ good sort you are. There’s nothin’ 
he admires so much as originality and indepen- 
dence in a woman. There’s an American girl 
stayin’ at our place — Madelon Van Stuyvesant 
Dibbs — Expect you’ve heard of her.” 

“Rather — her mother has been to me twice to 
ask questions about her — The girl’s engaged to a 
Russian Grand Duke and has had proposals 
from every out-of-elbow peer in the Kingdom, 
so she came to me about it.” 

“And what did you say?” 

“Just nothing at all — at least it amounted to 
that — buttered her up and said the girl would be 


69 


The Lure of a Siren 

quite safe in following the instincts of her heart.” 

“I suppose she would with a fortune of ten 
millions — sterling, mind — not dollars, and if you 
knew her you’d say so too. She can take care of 
herself, all right. She’s one of the emancipated 
women if ever there was one. I was just goin’ 
to quote her as an example of what the Guv’nor 
admires — but only because she is out of the com- 
mon, and he’d like you for the same reason — not 
that you’re a bit like her, thank goodness. She 
was raised, as they say, in North Carolina — came 
from a place called Beechtown, where they have 
a wonderful French chateau in the mountains, 
with an estate of 150,000 acres — When she’s at 
home she thinks nothin’ of ridin’ to the town in a 
divided skirt and no hat, and goes down a canyon 
like the side of a house to get there. She says it 
saves her at least half a mile. She drops in to 
dinner with her pals at Beechtown — quite unex- 
pectedly of course — and goes back at any time 
you like from midnight to two in the mornin’, 
though there are 'toughs’ and niggers enough to 
scare the life out of most people, but they don’t 
seem to trouble her — she carries a revolver and 
can use it, too, and I suppose they know it. 
Well, that’s not what I started to tell you. You 


70 


The Third Party 

know the Guv’ nor’ s a patron or somethin’ of that 
sort to some rotten Social Purity League in which 
a lot of women are interested and there was a lo- 
cal committee meetin’ at Sportin’ ton Towers last 
week. Miss Van Stuyvesant Dibbs was interested 
in it because she heard some of the members were 
suffragettes and she is that way inclined herself, 
but in the American way, which seems to have 
some sense in it and don’t 'run to smashin’ up shop 
windows. Well, she was able to judge for her- 
self, anyhow. The committee turned up and I 
happened to see ’em come in — a most horrible 
sight — you never saw such a collection out of a 
museum. The secretary was the worst of the lot 
— a young woman called Crabtree — she was edu- 
cated at Newnham, and has a finger in every pie 
that comes her way. She’s the most interferin’ 
mischief makin’, domineerin’ little cat in the 
county, and at once swooped down on Miss Van 
Stuyvesant Dibbs, who was prepared to be civil, 
but wasn’t accustomed to be hectored and in- 
structed by people of the Crabtree type, so she 
said, ‘I don’t think I’m interested in anythin’ you 
have to say and I won’t intrude on your meetin’.’ 
The Crab Apple couldn’t take a hint and said 
Americans had a lot to learn, and was so beastly 


71 


The Lure of a Siren 

offensive that the other couldn't stick it any 
longer, so she said — ‘When I want instruction I’ll 
look for it from someone with decent manners 
and average intelligence. In North Carolina, we 
call people like you damn little peanuts!’ ” 
“Rather strong, wasn’t it*?” 

“Oh, I don’t know — the mater was a bit 
shocked, I think, but the Guv was delighted. 
‘That’s the sort of girl I like,’ he said — ‘nothin’ 
conventional about her. Show me a woman who’s 
not afraid to speak her mind, who can think and 
act for herself and has enterprise and pluck 
enough to steer her own course — that’s a woman 
I respect, damme — I don’t care who she is.’ ” 
“And you think I’m like that, do you, Algy?” 
suggested Rose. 

“Rather — just look at what you've done — If 
that isn’t enterprisin’, I don’t know what it.” 

“I suppose it is in a way — but you see I was 
obliged to do something — I was only eighteen 
when mother died and I had to live somewhere 
— I answered an advertisement for a nursery 
governess and was engaged by a dreadful woman 
called Goggs, who lived at Streatham. She was 
a horribly common person, with four spoiled chil- 
dren, and at the end of a fortnight we both agreed 


72 The Third Party 

that we didn’t suit each other. Then I saw a no- 
tice that young ladies, with good voices and ap- 
pearance, were wanted at the Alcazar, so I at- 
tended a voice trial and was engaged. You see, 
I’ve simply drifted into things — I’m not sure it 
proves I’m a bit more enterprising than other peo- 
ple.” 

“That’s all rot. You seized your opportuni- 
ties and jolly well made the most of ’em, and 
one day you’ll find the Guv’nor and the mater 
will be just as proud of you as I am. If you can 
only give me a leg up with this old Johnny you 
were speakin’ of, I shall soon bring them to my 
way of thinkin’ — By the way, who is he?” 

“Christopher Pottinger — the member for Dock- 
ford.” 

“Good lord, why he’s the founder of that So- 
cial Purity crowd I was tellin’ you about. He 
lives down our way — got a place about twenty 
miles from the Manor — quite a big pot in his way, 
but a jolly old humbug from all I hear about him. 
Never mind that, though, — any port in a storm 
and, if he’s game to take me on, it’s good enough 
for me.” 

“I’ll do my best to impress him with your 
many admirable qualities — it might be as well to 


78 


The Lure of a Siren 

say what an ardent admirer you are of his, eh?” 

“That’s a good idea — plaster it on as thick as 
you like — it may impress him a bit.” 

“Just leave it to me, Algy, dear — we ought to 
manage it somehow ” 

The next afternoon, in answer to a tactful lit- 
tle note from Rose, Pottinger arrived at Grafton 
Street when the day’s business was over, and 
found Rose, in her smart going home costume, 
awaiting him. 

She was looking her best — which is to say she 
was looking very charming indeed — and it was in- 
tensely gratifying to Pottinger, who, in spite of 
his pose as one who soared high above the frailties 
of the average sinner, was a sly dog with a roving 
eye for a pretty face, to notice the warmth and 
sunny brightness of her welcome. 

It has been already shown that Rose Gay- 
thorne was quite capable of carrying through any- 
thing she had set her heart on doing, and she felt 
justified in adopting such measures to accomplish 
her present purpose as the occasion seemed to 
warrant. By this time she thoroughly understood 
Christopher Pottinger and had far more influence 
over him than he supposed. She had no illusions 
concerning his true character and knew exactly 


74 


The Third Party 

how to play on his vanity. He loved admiration 
— whether from the scullery maid or a crossing 
sweeper — it was equally sweet. To be similarly 
regarded by a young and beautiful woman filled 
him with rapture. It thrilled him with a sense 
of his subtle and impressive influence on the sus- 
ceptibilities of the gentler sex. Nothing pleased 
him more than to believe, as he certainly did, that 
they paid him homage as an exalted and superior 
being who yet possessed the fascinations of those 
of coarser clay, and Rose’s greeting filled him with 
amiability. 

“Dear Mr. Pottinger, how sweet of you to 
come,” said the artful little minx, a bewitching 
smile dimpling her cheek, as she rose to meet him. 
“And it is so nice to see you — Do sit in this com- 
fortable chair and Miss Graham shall bring you 
a cup of tea.” 

Pottinger settled himself snugly, and the tea 
was brought in. 

“I was almost afraid to ask you here again so 
soon,” said the wily one. “It was only last Thurs- 
day you came to look through the balance sheet, 
wasn’t it?” 

“My dear child, I’m only too delighted to obey 
your wishes at any time, but you understand it 


75 


The Lure of a Siren 

is scarcely wise for me to be seen here too often.” 

“That’s the worst of being famous, isn’t it? If 
you were just an ordinary everyday person, it 
wouldn’t matter, but when anyone is distin- 
guished, and popular — like you — I suppose it’s 
impossible to go anywhere without being stared 
at and admired.” She wondered if she were over- 
doing it but, as he seemed quite amiably disposed 
to listen, she thought it a pity to spoil the ship 
for lack of the proverbial half penny worth of 
tar, so she gazed at him admiringly as she added : 
“But then you always seem so unconscious of the 
notice you attract — I’m sure there are not many 
really great men who are so modest.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he purred, like a great tom 
cat having his back tickled — “One naturally gets 
accustomed to er — exciting some little attention 
— Being in the er — public eye, it is unavoidable — 
One doesn’t stop to think about it.” 

“ You don’t, I know,” she chirruped, “but there 
— I’ll not say what I was going to or you might 
think I wished to flatter you.” 

“Come, now, that’s too bad if it’s anything er 
— I should like to hear.” 

“No — it might make even you vain.” She said 
this with such a subtle emphasis that the mere 


76 


The Third Party 

statement became a compliment. She felt the 
smoothing down process had gone far enough and 
she could safely get to business. 

“I expect you are wondering why I asked you 
to come this afternoon. I could have written, 
of course, but it is so much nicer to say things to 
some people — I was wondering if you had found 
a secretary yet — You said you were looking for 
one last Thursday — because if you haven't, I 
have thought of someone who would exactly suit 

you — Such a ” Dear boy, she was going to 

say, but pulled herself up in time — “Such a nice 
fellow — Eton and Baliol and all that, you know, 
and so good looking." 

“Ah — um — a great friend of yours *?" he 
queried with just a hint of suspicion in his tone. 

“Yes — no, that is I know him very well — he’s 
engaged to a friend of mine." 

“I see, and you want to do him a good turn*?" 

“Of course — but I want to do you one as well, 
and I’m sure you’d find him awfully clever and 
willing, and he can play golf and tennis and bil- 
liards, like an angel — besides that he admires you 
tremendously. It would never do to tell you all 
he said about you." Which last remark was per- 
fectly true. 


77 


The Lure of a Siren 

“Well, well, I must see what can be done — I 
wish you’d mentioned it before, though — the fact 
is I’ve partly promised the appointment to some- 
body else.” 

“Oh! ! !” her face fell. “Don’t say that!” 

“I should like to engage the young man because 
you ask me but, for the moment, I can really say 
nothing.” 

“But don’t you think it might be managed 
somehow?” she pleaded. “I told him I was going 
to speak to you and poor Algy — Mr. Brocken- 
hurst, I mean — will be so dreadfully disap- 
pointed.” 

“But, my dear girl, you see my difficulty, don’t 
you? The position is er — practically under of- 
fer.” 

“Yes, I see, but — it would have helped the poor 
boy so much, and his father has such a high 
opinion of you too. Algy — I mean Mr. Brocken- 
hurst — tells me his father, Lord Sportington, 
thinks you are certain to be offered a seat in the 
Cabinet.” 

“What!” Pottinger had been roused with a 
vengeance. “Who did you say? — Lord Sport- 
ington — Are you talking of one of his boys? 
Bless my soul — Why didn’t you say so before?” 


78 


The Third Party 

“Of course, I ought to have done that — I 
meant to tell you what he said — it was really 
because of that I suggested A1 — Mr. Brocken- 
hurst to you.” 

She had seated herself on the arm of his chair, 
and was coquettishly adjusting the flower in his 
button hole — a liberty he by no means resented. 

“It shall certainly be arranged, if possible,” he 
said genially. “I’ll make an appointment for 
the boy to call on me.” 

“Now you are a perfect dear, as I always 
thought you were — It’s most awfully good of you 
— No, you mustn’t do that.” He had taken her 
hand in his and was patting it sheepishly. “Sup- 
pose Miss Graham should come in and see you.” 

“But it’s such a dear little hand,” he protested. 
“I really can’t help it.” 

So it will be seen that even the great-souled 
Pottinger had his frivolous moments. 

“As for young Brockenhurst,” he continued, 
“I’ll write him to-morrow. You know I would 
do anything to please you, don’t you*? Now sup- 
pose you dine with me one evening next week — 
shall we say next Thursday? — by that time I 
shall know where I stand. I’ll reserve a private 
room at the Roy ale — you see it’s er — not ad- 


79 


The Lure of a Siren 

visable for anyone so well known as myself, to 
dine in the public rooms — it attracts attention 
and er — would spoil my appetite.” 

“You mean you would rather not be seen in the 
restaurant, dining with me?” 

“Not at all — not at all — I should be honoured, 
but er ” 

“Mrs. Pottinger might object,” she added mis- 
chievously — having so far carried her point, she 
felt she could be more daring. 

“Certainly not, but the fact is er — a public 
man cannot be too careful. We’ll have a quiet 
little dinner by ourselves and arrange this matter 
of young Brockenhurst’s. Now don’t forget — 
Restaurant Royale — 8.30 — Thursday evening. 
Till then ” 

He raised her hand to his lips with ponderous 
gallantry — sighed heavily as if he wished to ex- 
press something more than words could convey — 
and with a languishing expression which, he im- 
agined, was really expressive, took his departure. 

The next day he motored down to “Crow’s 
Nest.” It will be remembered with what regret 
he told Louisa of his very important engagement, 
for the following Thursday evening. 


CHAPTER V 


THE RESTAURANT ROYALE 

I T was Hilary Chester who gave Paul Komin- 
sky the idea of coming to London. The 
smart clientele of his small but exclusive restau- 
rant in Vienna, declared its cuisine to be the 
most perfect and its service the most elegant in 
Europe. The simple refinement of its appoint- 
ments had a note of distinction that gave it a 
character and atmosphere of its own. It was as 
exclusive as a club and few who were not in the 
right set had the temerity to set foot therein — its 
aristocratic patrons would have resented their in- 
trusion. To Hilary Chester — at that time at- 
tache at the British Embassy — it was a favourite 
rendezvous. The prettiest women in Vienna 
were always to be met there, and the arrangement 
of those charming alcoves were admirably 
adapted for a flirtatious luncheon or supper. 
More than one domestic scandal had its origin in 
their elusive depths. They were none the less 
80 


The Restaurant Royale 81 

popular for that, and their construction was a 
tribute to Paul Kominsky’s resourcefulness in 
providing for a long-felt want. 

“You’re a deuced clever chap,” Hilary told 
him one day. “You’ve got ideas beyond a mere 
surpris du table , and you’re wasting your time 
here — you want more scope — all this is too small 
and limited — you should come to London. With 
your imagination and penetrating insight into 
human nature you would be welcomed as a boon 
and a blessing. Let the Restaurant Diplomatique 
look after itself and go in for something big — 
Think it over.” 

Paul thought it over to such good purpose that 
a year or two later the Restaurant Royale was not 
only an accomplished fact, but had already been 
stamped with the cachet of elite society. The 
alcove system, so popular in Vienna, had been 
elaborated by a series of miniature apartments, 
in which architectural grace and faultless fur- 
nishing were combined with artistic perfection. 
They were greatly in demand, especially by those 
patrons who, for reasons of their own, considered 
it undesirable to be seen at supper with the newest 
Russian dancer or some queen of musical comedy. 

Pottinger thoroughly appreciated their seclu- 


82 


The Third Party 

sion. He had been a liberal patron of the Roy ale 
from the first, and it might be assumed from the 
frequency of his visits and the variety of his com- 
panions that the great man had many charming 
acquaintances in town — possibly he regarded them 
as essential antidotes to the Lydia Crabtree type 
— Human endurance has its limits. 

So popular were les petits salons that it became 
necessary to reserve them in advance. Paul’s 
only regret was that the exigencies of space 
limited their number. Elderly city magnates, 
when accompanied by young and sprightly 
women, objected to the publicity of the Grand 
Restaurant in spite of its chic gaiety, and, if a 
private salon was not available, they went else- 
where. One day the resourceful Paul, consider- 
ing how this could be remedied, had an inspira- 
tion. The idea at first seemed fantastic, but ex- 
periment proved it to be both feasible and popu- 
lar. He lost no more disappointed clients for 
lack of reserved accommodation. He confided 
to Hilary, who frequently dropped in for lunch 
or supper, and sometimes delighted him by smok- 
ing a cigar in his private sanctum, that this latest 
idea was his chef d’ oeuvre in the way of novelty. 
He was quite proud of it. 


83 


The Restaurant Roy ale 

“Why do you suppose my beezness ’ave grown 
so fast 4 ?” he asked. “It is that I understand ’ow 
to geef my client somezing ’e cannot get elsevere 
— ve ’ave ’ad a great season — now it is fortunate, 
ve are ’ow you say — a leetle slack.” 

“Fortunate 4 ? — have you made your pile al- 
ready?” 

“I do not know vat you call, pile — ah — je 
comprends — you mean ze fortune — Non — not at 
all, but you see it is late in ze season — effry day 
people are leaving town, so ve take ze opportun- 
ity to make some change upstairs, and paint ze 
rooms.” 

“That means you are not in the shadow of the 
Bankruptcy Court, anyhow.” 

“Mais non, M’sieu, but it is vairy difficile ’ere 
in London to — ’ow you say? — compete — In 
Vienna, you remembair, I ’ad my own leetle 
clientele. You gentlemen of ze Embassy — ze 
ozair attaches, and ze officiars — but ’ere — ah ’ere 
in zis great city, we ’ave to specialize — Ze petits 
salons ’ave been vairy populair, but ve must do 
more still — ve must gief vat no vun can find in 
ozair restaurants ” 

“Your truite a la sauce verte , eh?” 

“Ah non, pas de tout . That you get ev’ryvairs. 


84 


The Third Party 

It is,” he said, in a burst of triumphal confidence, 
“ze chaperon!” 

“What the deuce is that?” 

“Ah, M’sieu — It is ze latest specialite of vich I 
did speak.” 

“Then,” said Hilary, with prompt decision, 
“I’ll try some.” 

“Pardon?” muttered Paul interrogatively. 

“Isn’t it on the menu to-night? It’s something 
to eat, I suppose?” 

“Non, non — it is a person.” 

“Oh, I see,” remarked Hilary, believing he un- 
derstood. “Who is she?” 

“She is a man . Un jeune homme, tres comme 
il faut , — vat you call vairy see-lect — ve keep ’im 
in ze ’ouse for emergencees — Ven ve are beesee, 
zere are two of ’eem — sometimes t’ree.” 

“You are not pulling my leg, are you?” en- 
quired Hilary, who was more puzzled than en- 
lightened by Paul’s explanation. 

“Mon dieu , non! You are my too goot friend 
of ze ’appy time in Vienna, vy should I pull you 
by ze leg?” 

“Then what the mischief are you talking 
about?” 

“Ze chaperon!” 


The Restaurant Royale 85 

“Yes, you said so before, but I don’t quite un- 
derstand.” 

“You see, it is zis vay — sometimes ve ’ave a 
client ’oo vish to take ze lunch, ze dinnair, or ze 
suppair, viz a lady ” 

“His wife, no doubt,” interrupted Hilary. 

“Mats, non ! Some vun else’s vife, per’aps — 
but of course ve do not know.” 

“Well, what about the chaperon?” 

“I tell you — our client ’ee is — may be — vairy 
much well known — ’Ee may be a famous lawyer 
— a great artist — ze populair ac-tor — ze distin- 
guished depute — membair of Parliament — ah, 
zey all come! It would not do if people say, I 
see Mistair zis, or Sir somezing zat at suppair 
viz a preety lady, ’oo is not ’ee’s vife — and 
Madame at ’ome might object ■” 

“It is not improbable,” remarked Hilary. 

“Veil, zat is vere ze Restaurant Royale get — 
vat you call ? — ze look in.” 

“This is getting interesting!” 

“Par example,” he continued, now warming up 
to his subject. “Ve vill say some vairy nice, good 


“A retired missionary, perhaps,” suggested 
Hilary. 


86 


The Third Party 

“ Mais oui , vy not*? It ’ave ’appened — Ze mis- 
sionaire, per’aps ’ee vant a leetle change — a leetle 
excitement ” 

“Surely not — a rest cure is more in his way, 
isn’t it? Dodging New Guinea cannibals ought 
to give him all the excitement he wants.” 

“It is quite true — but ’ee is so glad ’ee ’as not 
been eaten, after all, that ’ee goes — what you 
call — ‘a bust’ — it is quite nat-u-ral. It is ex- 
citement of another kind ’ee vant — Ve know ’ee 
can go to ze theatre — people say nozings — ’ee 
even go to music ’all — it is quite propair: — but 
if ’ee vish to dine alone viz a preety lady it is 
much more difficile — Ev’ry vun make talk — zere 
is ze scan-dal — ’ee’s vife, she ’ear about it. She 
is vairy much annoyed — She give ’eem — ’ow you 
say? — beans!” 

“No doubt.” 

“But ’ere, zere is no dangair — nozings at all.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because of ze chaperon! ’Ee is veil dressed, 
’ave ze charming mannair — and vor an hour or 
so, during ze lunch, ze dinnair or ze suppair, ’ee 
pretend ’ee is ze ’usband of ze lady. V ous com - 
prenez ?” 

“The idea is gradually dawning upon me.” 


The Restaurant Royale 87 

“It is all so simple — Ve vill say, par example, 
for ze occasion, ’is name vill be Smeet.” 

“That’s quite non-committal,” admitted 
Hilary. 

“Per-aps Napoleon Smeet.” 

“It adds distinction, certainly.” 

“Mistair and Meesis Napoleon Smeet, zey en- 
tertain zair dear friend, Mistair Brown, ze mis- 
sionaire; it is all quite propair — Mistair Napoleon 
Smeet, ’ee ordair very fine suppair, and much vine 
— for ze good of ze restaurant, of course — and 
Mistair Brown, ’ee pay! Mr. Smeet, ’ee eat ze 
souper and mind ’is beezeness, and Mistair 
Brown, ’ee talk to Meesis Smeet, and zere is no 
scandal — Not at all.” 

“It’s a great idea — Your own, of course.” 

“Mats oui! Yes — It is not long since ve be- 
gin, but already it is a vairy great success. It 
shall make my fortune.” 


CHAPTER VI 


A CATASTROPHE 

I T was almost the last night of the season. At 
least it was the last night of the opera, and 
next week the butterflies of Mayfair and Bel- 
gravia would be spreading their wings for the 
annual flight to Goodwood and Cowes. In spite 
of this, the Restaurant Roy ale had scarcely a 
table unoccupied and still more visitors were ar- 
riving. As the great glass doors of the Grand 
Salon swung open to admit them, the refined mur- 
murs of many voices, mingling with the subdued 
strains of the excellent orchestra, provided a gay 
and alluring incentive to enter. 

In the handsome inner vestibule, Paul Komin- 
sky was receiving his guests with that ingratiat- 
ing welcome which made him so popular, even 
with strangers. To those with whom he was more 
familiar, his manner was a judicious combination 
of friendly interest and respectful homage which 
contrasted so pleasantly with the negative quality 
88 


89 


A Catastrophe 

of their welcome in rival establishments. By 
some adroit expression, or personal attention, each 
habitue was made to feel that he was the one in- 
dividual whose patronage Paul most esteemed 
and most desired to honour. 

He was a brilliant example of the successful 
alien, and in everything he attempted, he pros- 
pered. His father, an alleged Count from Cra- 
cow, living in Vienna, had married a French 
woman, and Paul, by parentage and environ- 
ment, had acquired a temperament of a very un- 
usual and varied character. The success of his 
London venture was as much due to his striking 
personality as to his originality and skilful man- 
agement. 

Although there was great activity amongst the 
staff, there was no confusion. Everything worked 
with machine-like precision under the superin- 
tendence of Karl Schwarz, Paul’s indefatigable 
manager. There was a quiet dignity about it all 
that was most impressive. There was no bustling 
waiters, for instance. They would have been out 
of place in such surroundings. It was infinitely 
more flattering to one’s dignity to be attended by 
an imposing personage, with plush breeches, silk 
stockings, and powdered hair, who suggested the 


90 


The Third Party 

atmosphere of a ducal mansion rather than that 
of a place of public entertainment. This innova- 
tion might fail to impress Paul’s more exclusive 
patrons, but the wealthy nonentity regarded it 
with great approval. It gave him a feeling of so 
much importance, and if his dinner cost him a 
guinea more than it would have done at the Grand 
Universe, he paid it cheerfully. At length there 
was a lull in the arrivals, and Paul, having con- 
scientiously performed his duties as host, was 
about to retire to his private office, when the 
ubiquitous Schwarz emerged therefrom with an 
open telegram. 

“ ’Ere is a telegram from M’sieu Pottingair,” 
he said, with a note of anxiety in his voice. “ ’Ee 
ask for a private room to be for ’eem zis eef’ning 
reserved — ’Eet is not possible — I can only gief 
’im a table in ze restaurant.” 

“1 zink ’ee von’t like zat — You know what a 
beez’ness ’ee always make to ’ave ze private room 
— besides ze tables are now all engaged. Vat 
about ze small room over ze foyer ?” 

“It vas no goot — de vorkmans ’aff ’eem as well 
taken. Dere is no private rooms at all for no- 
bodys.” 

Paul was perplexed. He was particularly 


91 


A Catastrophe 

anxious to please Pottinger, who was an excellent 
customer, and had impressed him, as he did most 
people, with an exaggerated sense of his own im- 
portance. It seemed obvious that something 
should be done for such a distinguished patron. 
On one side of the vestibule there was a recessed 
place which, by placing a screen, had previously 
been used as an improvised dining space when 
no private room was available. It seemed to 
Paul that this might offer a solution to the pres- 
ent difficulty. 

“Ven ’ee arrive,” he instructed Schwarz, “I vill 
explain to ’eem myself — ve can put a table ’ere 
in ze recess — You shall let me know ven ’ee come 
— you vill find me in ze office.” 

Paul had scarcely disappeared when Hilary 
Chester sauntered through the revolving door. 
To say that he was faultlessly attired may fail to 
express the immaculate perfection of his appear- 
ance. There was no better dressed man in Lon- 
don, or, at least, one who wore his clothes with 
more distinction, and it is only fair to say that, if 
he had an eye for every pretty woman he met, he 
was himself an unfailing object of interest on her 
part. In spite of his perfectly correct manner, 
there was something original about him. His 


92 


The Third Party 

face expressed a light-hearted insouciance that 
was very captivating to feminine susceptibilities, 
and the humorous twinkle of his eye lost nothing 
by the cordless monocle he wore so deftly. 

Schwarz, who had now replaced his employer 
to receive any stragglers who might still arrive, 
smilingly recognised the familiar face. 

“Good eef’ning, sair,” he said, bowing in a 
rather impressive manner of his own. 

“Good evening, Schwarz — I shall want a table 
presently.” 

“I am so vairy sorry, M’sieu Chestair — -Ve vas 
quite full just now — for a leetle time at least,” 
he said apologetically. 

“Oh, I’m in no hurry,” said Hilary, relinquish- 
ing his coat and hat to a cloak-room attendant. 

Relieved of these impedimenta, he was saunter- 
ing to one of the fauteuils when a young man, 
emerging briskly from the restaurant, almost col- 
lided with him. 

“Hello, Hilary, old chap,” said this individ- 
ual, who was a bright-looking fellow, almost as 
immaculate as Hilary himself. 

“Ah, Algy! — haven’t seen you for an age. 
You’re not off already, are you?” 

“Yes, dined early — taking the mater to Covent 


93 


A Catastrophe 

Garden — last night of the opera, you know, and 
she wants to get there in time fof Tagliacci.’ ” 

“That be hanged for a yarn,” said the incredu- 
lous Hilary. “Why this filial devotion?” 

“Fact, dear boy, strange as it may seem.” 

“Then there’s some deep motive in it.” 

“Bull’s-eye ! I want her to touch the Guv’nor 
for a monkey.” 

“Ha! Ha! Very useful, too — have a 
liqueur?” 

“Righto ! Green chartreuse for me — I see I’ve 
plenty of time,” he said, looking at his watch as 
they seated themselves at one of the small tables 
facing the entrance; and Hilary gave the order. 

“Where have you been hiding lately?” en- 
quired the latter, offering his cigarette case to 
Algy. 

“Dear boy, I’ve had a rotten time — tied to the 
mater’s apron strings — for ulterior objects, of 
course.” 

“I see — she can deny nothing to such a devoted 
son.” 

“That’s the idea — and you?” 

“Oh, pottering about as usual,” drawled 
Hilary. “No coin — no tick — lost my best girl, 
and if my revered uncle’s gout doesn’t fly to his 


94 


The Third Party 

heart within the next six months, there’s nothing 
left for me but emigration or celibacy,” he added 
gaily. 

“Rottin’ as usual,” laughed Algy. 

“Solemn fact, I assure you — Been living on 
tick all my life — tick at Eton — tick at Oxford — 
tick at the Embassy. Tick, tick, tick, and now 
the darned old ticker refuses to tick any more.” 

“I like that — and you with ten thousand a year 
at least.” 

"Only five, dear boy — as yet, not a bob more, 
and what’s a beggarly five thousand? — just 
enough for a chap to starve on decently.” 

“You’re a gay dog, I’m afraid.” 

“Not a bit of it — steady as clock-work.” 

“You shouldn’t overwind it then. By the way, 
I heard you were getting married.” 

“That was the idea — by the way, you know 
Doris, don’t you?” 

“Rather — she and I are quite good pals.” 

“Jolly little girl,” admitted Hilary, “but she’s 
no coin either — and how can two people expect to 
live on my beggarly income. Besides, she’s got 
some silly idea that I’m more interested in other 
girls than I ought to be. Stupid notion of hers 
— not the slightest foundation for it, either.” 


95 


A Catastrophe 

“Of course not,” was the dry rejoinder. 

“So we agreed to separate for a year — just to 
see how things panned out. That’s some months 
ago.” 

Hilary sighed deeply, as if the memory were 
painful to him, though he still smiled cheerfully. 

“Where is she now?” enquired Algy. 

“Haven’t the faintest idea — that was part of 
the plan — she insisted that I wasn’t to know — 
said she thought — By Jove! just look there!” he 
exclaimed suddenly. 

The cause of this abrupt exclamation was the 
belated arrival of two ladies and a gentleman — 
The former were both attractive, the younger al- 
most a beauty. 

“I say,” exclaimed Hilary, after a breathless 
pause of admiration through his inseparable 
monocle. “ Did you see that girl? — What a rip- 
per — the tall one, I mean — What eyes! — what 
hair! — what a complexion!” 

“Draw it mild, old boy.” 

“But did you notice her eyes, Algy?” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“And her lovely hair?” 

“For a devoted lover I call this simply scan- 
dalous.” 


96 The Third Party 

“Why? Do you imagine because two — two 
fond hearts ” 

“Oh, stow it, Hilary,” laughed Algy, amused 
at his friend’s sentimentality. 

“What are you sniggering at? I say, if two 
fond hearts are cruelly separated by inexorable 
fate, is— er — is that a reason why a fellow should 
allow the memory to sadden his whole life — to 
— to embitter his — er — existence?” 

His manner was so serious and he appeared so 
entirely unconscious of any absurdity in his ex- 
planation that Algy couldn’t help laughing out- 
right. 

“What is there funny about it? I suppose a 
fellow can make love to more than one girl at 
the same time.” 

“Oh, can he — he’d be askin’ for trouble if he 
did.” 

“With discretion all things are possible — Es- 
pecially when one of them’s away,” he added con- 
fidentially, “and you don’t happen to know where 
she is.” 

“An action for breach wouldn’t be exactly 
pleasant.” 

“I’m not worth powder and shot.” 

“You would find it difficult to convince any- 


A Catastrophe 97 

one else of that. Besides, what would Doris 
think?” 

“Oh, she knows I adore her. I shall make her 
a most devoted husband.” 

“Urn!” was the dubious comment. 

“Um? — what do you mean by ‘um’? Do you 
suggest that I should lead the life of an an- 
chorite?” 

“Don’t know the sort of life he does lead, but 
if I played your sort of game with Rosey, it 
would be all up with me.” 

“Who is Rosey?” 

“My dear boy, she’s one of the best — the very 
best .” 

“Of course — we know all about that. But who 
is she?” 

“We’re keepin’ it dark at present, but, as an 
old pal, I don’t mind tellin’ you — in strict con- 
fidence of course — she’s been on the stage.” 

“Has she retired, then?” 

“Not exactly — she doesn’t depend on it, 
though. Anyhow, I’m goin’ to marry her.” 

“You’re really serious?” 

“Rather, you’ve no idea what a rippin’ good 
sort she is — a real pal — and she’s givin’ me a leg 
up into the bargain.” 


98 


The Third Party 


“How?” 

“Well,” said Algy thoughtfully, “I don’t know 
exactly how she means to work it, but she’s playin’ 
up to some influential old buffer.” 

“Is she?” remarked Hilary dryly. 

“Oh, don’t make a mistake,” added Algy, anx- 
ious to correct any false impression. “It’s en- 
tirely on my account — she’s gettin’ on his right 
side and tryin’ to work me in for a good billet. 
She’d do any mortal thing to help me. She’s 
awfully keen about it, I can tell you — It’s a sec- 
retaryship, I believe — the old boy is quite a big 
pot in Parliament, and is rather sweet on her — so 
she’s workin’ him for all she’s worth. Jolly good 
idea, isn’t it? It will please the Guv’nor, too — 
He’s as good as said that till I can do a bit for 
myself, he’ll do nothin’ more for me — So you 
see what it means — I shall be in clover, and can 
marry and settle down.” 

“You think he won’t object?” 

“To what? Why should he?” 

“Well, to Rosey’s profession.” 

“It’s the swagger thing, now-a-days, to be an 
actress. They marry into the best families — half 
the peerage would be extinct without ’em.” His 
enthusiasm was unbounded. 


A Catastrophe 99 

“You must get the Guv’nor to see it in that 
light.” 

“I mean to, and he will, when he sees her. 
She’s a clipper! Just a little skittish, perhaps,” 
he added thoughtfully, “likes a bit of fun, you 
know, but” — this with a burst of enthusiasm — 
“there isn’t a better girl, or a better pal than 
Rosey.” 

“No money of course?” 

“That’s where you’re wrong. She’s jolly well 
off.” 

“A leading actress, eh? — made her pile and 
given up the stage, I suppose?” 

“Not exactly that — she doesn’t do it regularly 
— and when she does she only walks on — she likes 
the change and excitement after her day’s work,” 
he explained. 

“What does she work at?” 

Algy lowered his voice to a confidential 
whisper. 

“You’ve heard of ‘Satanella’ ?” 

“You don’t mean the palmist?” 

“Yes I do — Awfully toppin’ rooms in Grafton 
Street. All the swells go to her. Makes heaps 
of coin — keep her own motor and dresses as a 
duchess might, but never does.” 


100 


The Third Party 

“Well,” said Hilary, “I shouldn’t make too 
sure of her, if I were you.” 

“Why not?” 

“Well — I shouldn’t, that’s all.” 

“What on earth do you mean?” insisted Algy. 

“Now don’t get excited, old chap, but — By 
jove ! Look at that !” 

This further interruption of Hilary’s was due 
to the appearance of a couple who had just 
emerged from the Restaurant — a military-looking 
man, accompanied by a singularly striking bru- 
nette. Seeing that Hilary’s eyes were fixed upon 
her, she blushed consciously, and turned in some 
embarrassment, while her escort received his coat 
and hat from an attendant, and realising that he 
had made her uneasy, Hilary had the grace to 
avert his gaze till she and her companion had 
disappeared. He was really incapable of hurting 
the susceptibilities of a fly, but could no more 
resist the attraction of a pretty face than a jack- 
ass could ignore a succulent thistle. 

“Did you ever see such a lovely creature? 
What great dreamy eyes! — what colouring! — 
what a mouth! Who is she, I wonder?” 

“How should I know? And why the deuce 
should you want to?” said Algy, almost irritably. 


101 


A Catastrophe 

<r Well, isn’t it natural? I’m afraid, though, 
she noticed that I was staring at her.” 

“I should rather think she did — if you are so 
pining for feminine society you’d better come on 
to the opera with me. The mater will be de- 
lighted. She’s bringing a rather stunning girl 
with her.” 

Hilary showed some interest on hearing the 
latter information. 

“A Miss Van Stuyvesant Dibbs — something 
quite unusual, I assure you. As a pal, I’ve got 
Doris to think of, of course, but I can safely trust 
you with Madelon. She’ll be quite safe against 
your blandishments. Now make up your mind, 
because I must be off,” said Algy, rising, and 
beckoning to an attendant, who brought his coat. 

“Oh, don’t go yet,” protested Hilary. 

“I really must. You can do as you like — but 
honestly I don’t think you are to be trusted alone 
here. You’d better join us. There’s plenty of 
room in the box.” 

“I loathe the opera — besides, I haven’t dined.” 

“Well, come on afterwards — we shall stay to 
the end. Box 18 — Grand Tier — I’ll tell the 
mater you’ll join us later.” 

“Righto ! Sonny ” 


102 The Third Party 

“So long, old chap — we shall expect you, 
mind.” 

Algy had scarcely disappeared when Paul 
slipped from his office, and, seeing Hilary, crossed 
to him with a most expressive gesture of apology. 

“Ah, M’sieu Chestair — ’Ave you been ’ere 
long? I am so sorry, Sair, you ’ave ’ad to vait. 
’Een a mee-net your own leetle table will be va- 
cant. I did not zink ve should be so crowded this 
eef-ning.” 

“Glad to hear business is so booming.” 

“Yes — it is vair goot — ve must not corn-plain 
— but ve are steel a leetle short of room because 
the vorkmen ’ave not finish.” 

Just then a page boy came from the office to 
say Mr. Kominsky was wanted on the telephone. 
It seemed as if Hilary would be left to his own 
reflections, but, a moment later, a new source of 
interest was provided for him by the arrival of a 
young and stylishly-dressed woman, wearing a 
magnificent evening cloak and whose general ap- 
pearance was decidedly attractive. To the sus- 
ceptible Hilary, her naive and piquant features 
made an even stronger appeal than the charms 
of the others who had so recently excited his ad- 
miration. She was alone, and a certain timidity 


A Catastrophe 103 

of manner seemed to lend her an added fascina- 
tion. She looked hurriedly round the vestibule, 
as if expecting someone, and seemed relieved 
when Schwarz advanced towards her. 

“Goot eef-ning, madame. You are expecting 
zom vun, per-aps?” 

“Can you tell me if Mr. Pottinger is here^” 
she enquired in a soft musical voice. 

“No, Madame, ’ee not come yet. Ve vas ex- 
pect ’im, but ze time I do not know. ’Eef you 
vill take a seat, I vill for you enquire.” 

From the partial screen of an evening news- 
paper Hilary surveyed his new charmer with 
fervid admiration — He decided that she was ab- 
solutely perfect! — a verdict, none the less con- 
vincing to him, from the fact that it had been 
made thousands of times before. He saw Paul 
approaching her and determined to hear what she 
had to say. 

“Bon soir , madame ,” said Paul in his most 
courtly manner, accompanied by a quite inimi- 
table bow. “You vere asking for M’sieu Pottin- 
gair. I am so sorry ’ee ’ave not arrive. ’Ee tele- 
graph to say ’ee vould be ’ere at ’alf-past eight — 
eet is now, I see” — looking at his watch — “just 
a quarter-past.” 


104 The Third Party 

“ I must have mistaken the time,” she said, evi- 
dently in some uncertainty as to what she had 
better do. 

“I zink I cannot be wrong — ’eef you pardon me 
a moment, I vill refer to ze telegram.” 

In a moment he had reached the office and was 
back again with the wire in his hand. 

“I see I vas right, ’alf-past eight is ze time.” 

“Then I will come back — my car is outside.” 
She had risen to go, but paused suddenly. “Per- 
haps I had better leave a message for him — have 
you a sheet of paper?” 

“Certainment, madame — vill you please seet 
’ere?” he indicated a small table, on which writ- 
ing materials were arranged, and, as she sat be- 
fore it, he took up a pen as if to satisfy himself it 
was in perfect order, but she waved it aside and, 
from the gold chain bag, produced a tiny pencil 
case. 

“Thanks,” she explained. “My pencil will 
do.” 

She hurriedly wrote a few lines and, placing 
the paper in an envelope, handed it to Paul. 

“Please give this to Mr. Pottinger, should he 
arrive before I return.” 

She turned to go, and had almost reached the 



HILARY HAD BEEN WATCHING HER EVERY MOVEMENT 









































. 





































































































A Catastrophe 105 

revolving door, when Hilary, who had been 
watching her every movement, observed that she 
had dropped a tiny lace handkerchief. To re- 
cover it, and overtake her, was the work of a mo- 
ment. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said in his most in- 
gratiating manner. “This is yours, I think?” 

He handed it to her with such an obvious stare 
of admiration, that she lowered her eyes in some 
confusion. 

“Thank you very much,” she said, and bowing 
slightly, turned to Paul, who was standing by 
the door. “You will be sure to give my note to 
Mr. Pottinger.” 

“Mais, oui , madame.” 

“I say, Paul,” exclaimed Hilary, as she van- 
ished from sight, “what an exquisite creature! — 
She is a perfect goddess ! What a figure ! What 
an ankle! You surely noticed her ankle — and 
her teeth ! She’s absolutely enchanting ! I won- 
der who she is? Of course you can tell me?” 
And he turned expectantly to Paul. 

Instantly, as the custodian of his patrons’ 
secrets, he was on the defensive. 

“ Ah , non. I only know that she is to dine viz 
yun of my good clients.” 


106 


The Third Party 

“Yes, I heard her asking for him. Pottinger! 
Now who the dickens is Pottinger?” 

“ ’Ee is a Membair of Parliament,” vouch- 
safed Paul. 

“What! Oh, of course — the Social Reform 
Johnny.” 

“I don’t know vat zat mean.” 

“After your recent confiding revelations and 
remembering the particular bent of your genius, 
I should be surprised if you did — Well, never 
mind — tell me her name.” 

“Pardon — I must be discreet.” 

“Hang your discretion!” 

“Mistair Pottinger would not like eet — ’ee 
’ave to be vai-ry particular.” 

“I see — this sort of appointment is not un- 
usual with him.” 

“ Mats , non , ven ze Parliament is seeting, ’ee 
come ’ere vairy often vit ’ees — er — friends — and 
always ’ee dine in a private room.” 

“He would, of course.” 

“But to-night ’ee cannot ’ave a private room.” 

“Then he’ll go somewhere else.” 

“Non, non , not at all! Ven I explain to ’eem 
ze chaperon, it will be quite all right. Zat is 
vere ze chaperon come in.” 


107 


A Catastrophe 

“Napoleon Smith, eh*?” laughed Hilary. 

“ ’Ees real name is Tompkins,” confided Paul, 
“but to-night it will be ‘Jones.’ ” 

“I should rather like to see him.” 

“You shall — I vill introduce ’eem — ’ee is 
vai-ry nice.” He called to a passing page boy. 
“Tell Mistair Tompkins I vant ’eem ’ere — at 
vonce. ’Ee is our best man,” he added when the 
boy had gone on his quest. “Vairy clevair. Ze 
ozairs ve do not employ so late in the season. 
Still, vun is not enough.” 

“How’s that?” 

“Ze vork is vai-ry ’ard — it undermine ze con- 
stitution — I’m afraid it vill kill ’eem soon,” he 
said with a sigh. 

“You should insure his life,” suggested the re- 
sourceful Hilary. 

“You see, sometimes, zere is so great demand 
for ’eem. Yesterday, par example” — he indi- 
cated the details by ticking them off on his fin- 
gers — “ ’ee take ze lunch, t’ree teas, two dinnair, 
and vun suppair. To-day ’ee take two lunch — it 
make ’eem vairy ill.” 

“Poor devil, I should think it did.” 

“Zen zere is ze vine ” 

“He should be more moderate.” 


108 


The Third Party 

“But ’ee like it — vai-ry much — and zee more 
’ee drink, ze bettair for my restaurant — zat is vy 
I value ’eem so much; ze ozairs are not ’alf 


At this point he was interrupted by the page 
boy’s return. 

“Mr. Tompkins is gone, sir,” announced the 
lad. 

“Gone!” echoed Paul, in astonishment. 

“Yes, sir, — left word to say that mixin’ the 
Burgundy and champagne at ’is two lunches to- 
day upset ’im dreadful and ’ee felt that bad ’ees 
catchin’ the Pullman to Brighton to get a night’s 
rest.” 

The information came like a thunder clap to 
the unfortunate Paul. For a moment he seemed 
completely overwhelmed by the catastrophe, and 
sat, staring helplessly at the retreating messenger 
of ill omen. 

“Awkward, eh*?” said Hilary. “What about 
Pottinger now*?” 

“It is terrible. I shall lose vun of my best 
patrons. I am miserable! — desole — zat villain 
Tompkins! to fly to Brighton and leave me alone 
wizout a chaperon — ’ee say ’ee is eel! Ah! ’ee 
too much love ze champagne and ze Chambertin. 


A Catastrophe 109 

Zut alorsl — Tompkins is a beast — a pig — I ’ope 
it vill keel ’im — Ah, mon dieu .” 

He buried his head in his arms upon the 
table, in an agony of dismay. 

“Come, buck up, Paul — it’s no use taking it 
like that.” 

“You do not understand — it is a tragedy — I 
vill punch ze ’ead of Tompkins, ven ’ee come 
back.” 

“Don’t talk rot — You’ve worked the poor 
devil too hard. How would you like to eat ten 
meals a day? — It would ruin the digestion of an 
ostrich.” 

“Vat shall I do? — Vat can be done?” moaned 
Paul, apparently deaf to Hilary’s remarks. 

“The first thing you’ve to do, is to pull yourself 
together. Then try to find a substitute.” 

“It vould not be possible.” 

“Look here, Paul. You did me some good 
turns in Vienna. Now I’ll do one for you. Let 
me take his place.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 

O say that Paul was astonished but feebly 



JL describes his emotions. The French blood 
of his maternal relative, and the tumultuous and 
passionate spirit of his Polish father, had com- 
bined to make him an easy prey to the most vio- 
lent transitions of temper. At one moment his 
paternal origin was proclaimed by an almost 
hysterical outburst, and the next, his buoyant 
French optimism overcame it. For an instant 
the sincerity of Hilary’s proposal scarcely dawned 
upon him — Tt is M’sieu Chestair’s little joke’ — he 
thought. 

“Ah, you make mock of me,” he said aloud. 

“Quite serious, I assure you — I haven’t dined 
and I think I should rather enjoy it,” then with 
a burst of frankness — “The lady appeals to me.” 

“She is tres charmante /” 

“I noticed that.” 

“And it vould zave my reputation,” he added, 


110 


The Important Engagement 111 

now quite convinced that Hilary was in earnest. 

“Rats!” was the enigmatic rejoinder. “That’s 
past praying for.” 

“ Comment ?” He was not quite sure if the re- 
mark was complimentary, and his tone was 
slightly indignant. 

“Well, then that’s settled, isn’t it?” said Hil- 
ary, ignoring the query. “Jones was the name, 
I think?” 

“Ak oui, Robinson Jones.” 

“Don’t like Robinson — Why not Welling- 
ton?” 

“It is just as you please — Ah, M’sieu Ches- 
tair,” he cried in a burst of genuine gratitude, 
“you ’ave made me ze ’appy man. You under- 
stand? You ordair, ’ee pay!” 

“That seems quite easy.” 

“And remembair, ordair ze most you can; it 
is for ze good of my restaurant.” 

“You mean, I needn’t consider expense?” 

“ Mats non , of course not ” The move- 

ment of the revolving door caused him to look in 
that direction. “S-h-h-h-sh !” he murmured un- 
der his breath, “I zink ’ee is come now — Vill you 
vait in my bureau till I introduce you?” 

“As Wellington Jones?” enquired Hilary, 


112 The Third Party 

crossing to the office in obedience to Paul’s sug- 
gestion. 

“Ha! ha! to be sure — as Vellington Jones. 
Schwarz” — he said to that functionary, who just 
then appeared — “you vill know vat to say to 
M’sieu Pottinger.” 

As they reached the managerial retreat, Pot- 
tinger entered the foyer. 

He was not the same Pottinger with whom we 
are already familiar — much of his pomposity had 
vanished, and he wore a distinctly jaunty, if not 
rakish, air. His glossy Lincoln and Bennett, 
usually worn with such studied precision, was 
now tilted at a noticeable angle, and a magnificent 
orchid — carefully protected under his light even- 
ing cape — adorned his button hole. The spick 
and span correctness of his attire was decidedly 
impressive and his waistcoat of white moire silk 
was a conspicuous triumph from Saville Row. 
Even his smile had undergone a subtle change. 
The placid benevolence of his picture post card 
expression was replaced by a smirk of the gay 
dog variety, and one would scarcely have been 
surprised to hear him humming a snatch from the 
latest music hall ditty. His bland smile merely 
broadened, however, as he caught sight of 


The Important Engagement 113 

Schwarz, who obsequiously advanced to meet 
him. 

“I am expecting — er — a lady,” explained the 
elderly Adonis. “Is she here yet*?” 

“She before ze time did gomb. She vill be 
back soon — at vonce.” 

“Why did she not wait?” he enquired, relin- 
quishing hat and stick and submitting to the re- 
moval of his silk-lined cape. 

“She prefair not — she did speak viz Mistair 
Kominsky. 5 Er car, she say, did vait. She gomb 
again queek.” 

“Ah ! I see — which room are you giving me?” 
he enquired, as he turned to a mirror, straighten- 
ing his hair and adjusting the flower in his coat. 

“I vas sorry, but zere vas no private room to- 
night.” 

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed, abruptly 
facing Schwarz in surprised annoyance. “I wired 
for one to be reserved. Where is Mr. Kominsky? 
— Send him to me at once.” He was greatly 
ruffled, not being at all accustomed to having his 
wishes ignored. “What is this I hear about hav- 
ing no private room?” he demanded, as Paul ar- 
rived. 

“ Mille pardons, m’sieu ! I am so sorry, indeed. 


114 The Third Party 

Ze vorkmens ’ave all ze rooms, but ve can, I ’ope, 
make you vai-ry comfortable all ze same.” 

“You can do nothing of the sort — If you can’t 
give me a private apartment, I shall take the lady 
elsewhere.” 

“But pardon, m’sieu, I am so grieved ” 

“I don’t care whether you are grieved or not,” 
was the angry interruption. “You’ve no right to 
do up your beastly rooms without consulting any- 
one’s convenience. You should have kept one for 
me at all events.” 

“Ah, m’sieu,” protested Paul, “I did not 
know.” 

“Then you ought to have done — you are quite 
aware that a man in — er — my position” — he had 
quite resumed his Parliamentary manners — “can- 
not be seen in a public room, even with — ahem ! 
— his niece, without attracting attention, and in- 
viting remarks, and — er — ill-natured conclu- 
sions.” 

“But m’sieu ” 

“Hold your tongue — there’s no ‘but’ in the 
case. You have treated me shamefully, and you 
don’t consider the lady’s feelings, either.” 

“Ah, I see — you zink she vould not like to be 
seen viz you.” 


The Important Engagement 115 

“Certainly — that is — w-what the devil do you 
mean?” was the somewhat explosive reply to 
Paul’s ambiguous suggestion.' “Why shouldn’t 
she?” Then to an attendant, “Bring me my coat, 
and phone to the Grand Universe for a room.” 

“But, m’sieu, eef you vill but leeson, I can 
arrange everyzings to please you all ze same. 
You need not dine in ze Grand Salon — I vould 
gief you a special table ’ere — I often ’ave a party 
in ze vestibule ven ze restaurant vas full — ’Ere 
Schwarz — ’ave a table arrange ’ere, and put a 
screen round to keep off ze draught.” 

At Schwarz’s bidding the order was quickly 
carried out. 

“Absurd,” said Pottinger, observing these 
preparations; “we should be stared at by every- 
one coming in and out.” 

“Not at all — you vill permit me to explain — it 
vill be q’vite all right. I q’vite understand,” he 
continued in his most flattering tones, “zat a gen- 
tleman so distingue as M’sieu Pottingair ’ave ze 
eyes of all ze world on ’eem. It is q’vite right — 
q’vite nature/ — ’ee cannot ’elp eet. All ze peo- 
ple vish to see ’eem because ’ee is so clevair — so 
’andsome — zey say: ‘Zere is ze great Mistair 
Pottingair, who make ze fine speak in ze ’ouse. 


116 


The Third Party 

Ze eloquent Mistair Pottingair, ze veil-known 
Membair of Parliament, ’oose picture ve see in ze 
papain’ ” 

Pottinger had been listening to these eulogies 
with great complacency when it suddenly dawned 
upon him that their sincerity might not be unim- 
peachable, so he interrupted Paul’s flow of elo- 
quence. 

“Yes, yes, but what has that to do with it?” 

“It ’ave ev’ry zings, because I know ze great 
man is always — ’ow you say? — modest, also ’ee 
’as ze enemy ’oo is jealous of ’eem. Zey make ze 
mischief ! — but ’ere — at the Restaurant Roy ale — 
’ee is safe, because ve supply ze chaperon!” 
Paul waved a hand reassuringly. 

“Oh, do you — and what may that be?” 

“Ze chaperon is a gentleman — ve keep ’eem 
’ere in ze ’ouse, expres. ’Ee for ze dinnair time, 
vill be Mistair Vellington Jones — ze lady — for 
ze dinnair only” — he spoke with great delibera- 
tion and emphasis, that no point in his explana- 
tion might seem obscure — “ze lady shall be 
Meesis Vellington Jones. Zey entertain Mistair 
Pottingair, zere illustrious friend to dinnair. 
V oil a /” 

Pottinger was visibly impressed. “Ha! ha!” 


The Important Engagement 117 

he laughed, “quite an original idea — I — er — 
rather like it — I think I like it very much.” 

“You vill like ’eem ven you see ’eem,” added 
Paul with conviction. 

“I suppose the — er — fellow can behave like a 
gentleman ?” 

“ ’Ee is a gentleman. ’Ee ’ave ze pairfect 
mannair.” 

“Down on his luck, I suppose. I shall have to 
explain it to my little friend when she comes.” 

“And I vill gief Mistair Jones ’ee’s instruc- 
tions. By ze vay, vat is ze lady’s name? — ’er 
Christian name?” 

“What do you want that for?” 

“It vould be razer extraordinaire for ze ’usband 
not to know ze name of ’ees vife.” 

“Oh, very well, her name is Rosamond.” 

“Rosamond — I vill tell ’eem — pardon — I 
must gief ’im ’ees instructions.” 

Meanwhile the table was being prepared, and 
Pottingei, with some impatience, awaited Miss 
Gaythorne’s arrival. 

“Ah, here she comes at last,” he muttered, as 
Rosey once more entered the foyer, and, with the 
alacrity of a far younger man, advanced to meet 

her. 


118 


The Third Party 

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked, 
greeting him in her most debonair manner. 
“Awfully sorry I mistook the time — so stupid of 
me.” 

“It is not of the slightest consequence — except 
for any trouble it may have caused yourself. 
There has been a little difficulty here,” he ex- 
plained confidentially. “No private room to be 
had — I shall have to break through my rule for 
once.” 

“You are never going to dine in the restau- 
rant?” she exclaimed in some surprise. 

“We are having this table here,” he explained. 

“Isn’t that rather daring?” 

“Well — er — not if you consent to a little in- 
nocent deception.” 

“Anything innocent appeals to me immensely; 
what is it?” 

“It’s — er — it’s really a capital joke,” he con- 
tinued, rather feebly. “Ha! ha! I can’t help 
laughing at the idea — The fact is, I want you to 
play a little part for an hour or so.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“No, no, of course not.” It surprised him to 
find it was not so easy to acquaint her with Paul’s 
little plan as he had supposed, and in his nervous- 


The Important Engagement 119 

ness he had taken her white gloved hand and was 
patting it affectionately. 

“You really must break yourself of that habit,” 
she said, releasing herself. “Think if anyone 
should see you. But you haven’t told me what 
you mean.” 

“Well — er — it’s quite simple. You are to be 
my hostess at dinner this evening.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You and your 'husband’ are going to enter- 
tain me” 

“Husband!” She looked at him with a swift 
glance of suspicion, as if doubting his sanity. 
“It — it isn’t overwork, is it?” 

“Eh? Oh, I see what you mean,” he replied, 
laughing. “No, it isn’t so bad as that. I’m 
merely taking advantage of the wonderful re- 
sources of this establishment. I — er — have or- 
dered the chaperon.” 

In spite of his assurance she was not at all com- 
fortable. 

“I think I’d better be going home.” 

“Not for worlds.” She was moving from him, 
but he placed a detaining hand on her arm. “You 
must not think of such a thing — it’s all right — 
don’t you see? ” 


120 The Third Party 

“No, I don’t,” she interrupted with some im- 
patience. 

“If you would only listen — for many reasons, 
as you know, I can’t be seen dining alone with a 
lady.” 

“Mrs. Pottinger might hear of it, for instance.” 

“But as the guest of yourself and — er — your 
'husband,’ ” he went on, ignoring her remark. 

“My husband ! Oh, I give it up.” 

“He’s a most gentlemanly man, I’m told — 
kept on the premises especially — er — for such 
emergencies. Now if you’ll consent to be Mrs. 
Wellington Jones ” 

“What*?” she cried in amazement, and more 
than ever convinced that he had suddenly lost 
his reason. 

“Oh, only during dinner.” 

“What a perfectly shameless proposition,” she 
protested, with pretended indignation, as the idea 
he had been trying to explain had suddenly 
dawned upon her. “Quite disgraceful !” 

“There’s nothing disgraceful in anything that 
— er — can’t be found out.” 

“It is a funny idea, though.” She began to 
think it would be rather a good joke, after all. 
“It’s original, at all events.” 


The Important Engagement 121 

“Yes, isn’t it? Ha! ha! That’s how it struck 
me — so novel.” He saw the notion appealed to 
her, and determined to pursue his advantage. 
“It ought to be most amusing — surely you won’t 
mind — and I don’t see what else we can arrange 
now.” 

“What is he like?” 

“I haven’t seen him yet, but he’s sure to be all 
right — everything is here, you know, and it should 
be — er — capital fun.” 

“Perhaps it might be, but I hope — if I con- 
sent — it won’t cause trouble.” 

“How should it? Come, now — you’ll agree, 
won’t you?” 

“All right, since you wish it. Where is he?” 

“They’ve got him here somewhere.” Then ad- 
dressing one of the liveried flunkeys — “Tell Mr. 
Kominsky to send the gentleman he spoke of. 
You are quite sure you don’t mind?” he added to 
Rose. 

“No, I’m beginning to think I shall enjoy it,” 
she told him. 

“I’m so glad. It won’t make the least differ- 
ence, you know,” he protested amorously. 
“He’ll only be a sort of lay figure. These fel- 
lows know their place. It’s what they’re paid 


122 


The Third Party 

for — speak when they’re spoken to, and quite 
discreet. Ha! ha! ha! We shall enjoy ourselves 
quite as much as if he were not present.” 

“Of course — why shouldn’t we?” 

“You must be quite natural, though — any em- 
barrassment would spoil it all — Just see how 
well you can play the part — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Mrs. 
Wellington Jones — Ha! ha! ha!” And he 
laughed quite boisterously, while Rose, catching 
the contagion, laughed with him till she saw they 
were attracting the attention of some people who 
were leaving the restaurant. 

“S-h-h-sh! Do be careful. You’ll have every- 
one looking at us.” 

But Pottinger could not so easily restrain him- 
self, and still shook with merriment. 

“Poor Jones! Ha! ha! The reticent husband 
and his charming wife, entertaining their old 
friend, Pottinger — it’s the best joke I’ve heard 
for years — Ha! ha! ha!” 

“I must try to do the part justice.” 

“You will — to perfection.” 

“Don’t be too sure. It will be very embar- 
rassing.” 

“If there is any embarrassment, it will be on 
his side, not on ours — Ha! ha! ha!” 


The Important Engagement 123 

“It can’t be very pleasant for him, poor 
fellow.” 

“Well, that’s his affair. I’m sure you’ll be 
very nice to him — You are to everyone,” he 
whispered ingratiatingly, “and a smile from you 
should compensate him for a good deal.” 

“I shall see if he deserves one,” she said co- 
quettishly. 

As she spoke she was conscious that someone 
was standing beside them and, looking up, recog- 
nised the handsome stranger who had retrieved 
her handkerchief half an hour before. 

Pottinger, still chuckling to himself, had failed 
to notice his arrival, or the slight embarrassment 
Rose displayed on seeing him. It would have 
surprised him if he had. There was, however, 
more than one surprise in store for him this even- 
ing, and he little thought that, at the very mo- 
ment, his wife — one of a sedate little party of 
three — was eating a mutton chop in the grill 
room, just under his feet. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A NICE LITTLE DINNER 

H ELLO — Pottinger, old boy — there you are 
— Jolly glad to see you.” 

Before he could clearly realise what had hap- 
pened, Pottinger had been effusively shaken by 
the hand and received a resounding slap of wel- 
come on the shoulder — a style of greeting so un- 
expected that it rendered him momentarily 
speechless. 

“Rosamond, my dear,” continued this auda- 
cious person, “shall we start dinner?” 

Rose, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, 
took the seat Hilary indicated, but Pottinger — 
utterly overwhelmed by the chaperon’s greeting 
— stood resentfully glaring at him, all power of 
utterance being choked by the violence of his 
emotions. 

“Come along, Pot, my boy,” said Hilary, en- 
couragingly. 

“I — I shall do nothing of the sort, sir,” he 
124 


A Nice Little Dinner 


125 


spluttered at last. “How dare you address this 
lady, and er — myself, in such a familiar 
manner ?” 

“Ha, ha!” laughed the genial Jones. “You 
like your little joke, don’t you!” 

“I’ll have you to understand, sir ” 

“You’re not annoyed, are you 2 Why, my dear 
chap, you forget what old friends we are.” By 
way of a reminder, the unfortunate M. P. received 
a violent nudge in the ribs — “You must keep in 
mind that I’m one of your most influential po- 
litical supporters — The information may be use- 
ful — you never know.” 

“It seems I have a great deal to learn.” 

“Of course you have, but don’t forget our warm 
mutual friendship. It’s the essence of the whole 
thing — Don’t spoil it all by behaving like a bally 
idiot. You may And it difficult, perhaps, but do 
your best and please remember what is due to my 
wife if you don’t care to consider my feelings.” 
“Well, I’m ” 

“No, you’re not, Pottinger — far from it, I 
hope. I can’t answer for what may ultimately 
happen to you, but I daresay you’ll pull through 
if you’re careful.” 

“Da — Dash it all, sir, do you know 4 ? ” 


126 


The Third Party 

“You surely don’t want to make a scene. 
What will Rosamond think? Come, buck up, 
old boy — a glass of sherry will put you right.” 
He eyed Pottinger encouragingly. 

Pottinger, who seemed quite hypnotised by 
these totally unlooked-for happenings, permitted 
himself to be led to the table, on the left of which 
Rose was already seated, and the unhappy man 
was about to occupy the centre chair next to her, 
when Hilary — it must have been by accident 
surely — drew it back, indicating that the seat 
facing Rose was for his occupation. Unfor- 
tunately he failed to grasp this intention in time 
to avoid a most undignified fall to the floor, which 
he reached much shaken — in a sitting posture. 
With the assistance of Hilary, and a silk-stock- 
inged flunkey, he was set on his feet again and 
gently but firmly placed facing Rosey, while the 
beaming Hilary sat between them. 

“You really should be more careful, Pot, old 
chap. With your age and weight a fall like that 
might be dangerous. We’ll soon have you all 
right, though. How about that sherry? Here, 
you” — to the wine steward — “where’s the carte? 
They’ve got some wonderful stuff here, Pot — per- 
haps you know it — Amontillado petronilla , 1872 


A Nice Little Dinner 127 

— thirty bob a bottle and worth it — it’s described 
on the wine list as Very curious.’ ” 

“Dashed curious, I should think, at that price,” 
growled the sullen guest. 

“Well, this is a special occasion, isn’t it 9 So 
you shall try some — and” — continuing his or- 
der — “put a magnum of Pommery, 1902, on ice. 
Yes, old friend, you shall have the best glass of 
sherry in London.” 

“I didn’t ask for sherry,” muttered this mon- 
ster of ingratitude. 

“No, but you’re going to have it all the same, 
and the best isn’t too good for you, Pot, my boy 
— is it, Rosey? It’s astonishing how a glass of 
really fine sherry improves the soup. By the way, 
which do you fancy, Pot? Consomme — lobster 
bisque — clear turtle — Come, what do you say? 
What will you have, Rosamond?” 

“I had better leave it to you,” she replied, as 
demurely as possible, though feeling an irresistible 
desire to laugh. Pottinger, however, preserved a 
sullen silence and sat crumbling his bread when 
a slight diversion was caused by the appearance 
of Schwarz, bringing the note left by Miss Gay- 
thorne. He was about to present it to its owner, 
when Rose, seeing what it was, snatched it from 


128 


The Third Party 

the salver and placed it in her chain bag, which 
was hanging from her chair. 

‘That’s all right,” she explained. “Mr. Pot- 
tinger won’t want it now. It is only my note tell- 
ing you I’d be back at half-past eight,” she told 
him. 

“Now about the soup,” said Hilary. “Suppose 
we say clear turtle — it’s evidently the best as 
it’s the most expensive — some caviare to start 
with and” — consulting the menu — “Truite a la 
sauce verte — foies de Chapon aux truffes — 
duckling aux asperges — and peches Melba. 
There, I think that should make a nice, comfort- 
able little dinner. What do you say?” 

This enquiry was addressed to Paul himself, 
who had approached the table ostensibly to see 
that all was in order, but more probably to ob- 
serve how Mr. Tompkins’s deputy was acquitting 
himself. 

He took the card on which the glorified menial 
had written the order, and glanced at it with 
approval. “Vairy nice,” was the approving ver- 
dict. “I vill send vord to my chef. Ze dinnair 
shall be parfaitment!” 

Meanwhile the sherry arrived, and Pottinger, 
still ill at ease, emptied a glass. It impressed 


A Nice Little Dinner 129 

him favourably for he filled another, and exam- 
ined the clear golden fluid against the light. 

“Well,” enquired Hilary, “was I right?” 

Pottinger sipped again, and smacked his lips 
approvingly. 

“Ah, I thought you’d like it. Come, buck up, 
old boy! — I see how it is — you’ve been overdo- 
ing it — a bit run down. We must brighten him 
up, Rosey. Never get in the dumps, Pottinger 
— it’s such a deuce of a job to get out of ’em. 
Look at me! All sorts of rotten luck — fortune 
at zero — the sport of fate, and all that sort of 
thing, but I refuse to be crushed, I bounce.” He 
spoke with no end of confidence. 

“You certainly do,” was Pottinger’s ambiguous 
comment. 

“Pardon me, you mistake my meaning. — What 
I intended to convey was that my temperament is 
elastic, buoyant; press me down and up I bob 
again.” 

“Quite irrepressible in fact,” remarked Rose. 

“Ha ! ha ! Very good,” laughed Hilary — “My 
wife is an extremely witty woman. — It’s quite 
true, though — my maxim is, let other people 
worry — it’s the only true philosophy — I say, old 
chap, why don’t you say something?” 


130 


The Third Party 

“I’ve not had a chance, so far,” grumbled Pot- 
tinger. 

“Oh, that’s all nonsense. Here am I doing my 
best to make you bright and happy, and you won’t 
rise to the occasion. Try a glass of champagne 
—I can recommend it.” 

“May I enquire, sir, if it is part of your duty 
to monopolize the conversation and to — to insult 
the patrons of this establishment 4 ?” 

“My dear friend, I thought I was making my- 
self extremely agreeable. You have honoured 
Mrs. Wellington Jones and myself by dining with 
us, but not even a temporary aberration can ex- 
cuse your most unjustifiable remarks. Rosey, 
dear, a little more champagne.” 

He replenished her glass and his own, and 
passed on the bottle with a “Help yourself, Pot- 
tinger.” 

“Yes, do help yourself, dear Mr. Pottinger,” 
urged Rose, sweetly. 

“Better leave him alone, Rosey. I’m sorry, 
but ” 

“Confound your impudence,” blazed out the 
irate M. P., losing his temper outright. “Why, 
you — you ” But words failed him. 

“Really, my dear friend, you forget yourself.” 


A Nice Little Dinner 


131 


“Oh, no I don’t. Do you suppose I came here 
to be ignored, and treated as if I were er — a — a — 
nobody ?” 

“Try an olive, darling,” said Hilary, ignoring 
this outbreak and passing her the dish, which she 
declined. 

“ Did — you — hear what I said, sir?” 

“A salted almond, then?” 

Hilary’s calm indifference goaded Pottinger to 
fury — he rapped his plate sharply with his knife 
and narrowly escaped breaking it. 

“Look here, Mr. — whatever your infernal name 
is.” 

“Gently — gently now — remember, please, 
there’s a lady present. The fact may have es- 
caped your notice.” 

“Br-r-r-r!” snarled Pottinger, in a passion. 

“Try and moderate your voice or you’ll be 
heard.” 

While the ducal-like footmen were removing 
the dishes and replacing them with others, Hil- 
ary devoted himself to an animated monologue 
with Rose — it could scarcely be described as a 
conversation as he did all the talking — which 
elicited no more than a smile in response. This 
continued till the entree was served when, having 


132 


The Third Party 

helped Rose, he filled another plate which he in- 
structed the man to place before Pottinger. The 
latter, however, pushed it from him. 

“Take it away,” he said gruffly — And this was 
the dinner he had been looking forward to for 
the last week ! 

Hilary was quite unmoved by his pseudo- 
guest’s aloofness, and merely redoubled his at- 
tentions to his charming “wife.” 

“Let me give you some more peas — a little 
toast. Why, your glass is empty — nonsense, just 
a little won’t hurt you.” He motioned the man 
to fill their glasses, but when it came to Pottin- 
ger’s turn the offer was once more waved aside. 
Hilary, supremely indifferent to this display of 
temper, had just raised his own glass to his lips 
when Pottinger again burst out. 

“Look here, Sir!” 

“I — er — ugh — confound it ! I wish you 
wouldn’t do that,” spluttered Hilary, half chok- 
ing. “It’s most disagreeable.” 

“I — I’m damned if I stand this any longer!” 
Pottinger exclaimed. 

“Oh, Mr. Pottinger — please ” remonstrated 
Rosey. 

“I say, I’ll not put up with it,” he shouted. 


A Nice Little Dinner 


133 


“Dear Mr. Pottinger — everyone will hear you 
— please — please — for my sake.” 

Deaf to her appeal, he banged on the table 
loudly with his fist. 

“Confound it all, Pm going. I’ll not stay here 
to be made a fool of.” 

“Sit down, Pot.” 

Hilary unceremoniously pushed him back in 
his chair, while Paul, attracted by the disturbance, 
came hurriedly from his office. 

“It’s all right,” Hilary assured him in reply to 
his alarmed enquiry. “Only a slight political 
argument.” 

“ Mon dieu! I zink it vas zat you quarrel.” 

“Ha! ha!” laughed Hilary. “That’s a good 
joke, isn’t it, Pottinger?” Then under his breath, 
“You silly ass, do you want to make a scene?” 
And once more, with hearty joviality for Paul’s 
benefit, “A real good joke, eh?” 

For the sake of appearance, Pottinger was 
bound to respond in the same spirit, though all 
the time he looked daggers at his tormentor. 

“Capital! Ha! ha! ha!” 

Thus reassured, Paul departed and the dinner 
was resumed, but Rose felt she must exert her 
influence to restore the harmony. 


134 


The Third Party 

“I think it’s most unkind of you,” she said al- 
most tearfully, and making a bewitching little 
moue, "to spoil my evening like this — and I was 
so looking forward to it,” she murmured — put- 
ting her hand across the table, and placing it 
lightly on his. 

"That’s right — put the blame on me. It is a 
lesson at all events. It’s the last time I shall 
come here.” 

"No it isn’t, Pottinger,” broke in Hilary. 
"When you’re in a more reasonable frame of 
mind you’ll see how badly you’ve behaved. It’s 
shameful — at your time of life, too. I must in- 
sist on an apology.” 

"Insist on what*?” Had he really heard 
aright? It seemed incredible. 

"I must ask you to apologise — to my wife, and 
to me.” 

"I’ll see you ” 

"S-h-h-sh! you won’t do anything of the sort. 
You’ll merely apologise,” said Hilary with great 
firmness. 

"You really are in the wrong, dear Mr. Pot- 
tinger,” said Rosey, very sweetly. "And remem- 
ber, the arrangement was yours — please, please, 


135 


A Nice Little Dinner 

don’t spoil our evening.” And here she softly- 
laid her hand on his again. 

“Oh, very well then, I apologise,” he blurted 
out ungraciously. “But all the same ” 

“Come, come, no qualifications,” insisted Hil- 
ary. “Your behaviour has been simply rotten, 
old man, and you’ve grossly insulted your host 
and hostess.” 

“Why, confound it ” 

“Really, Pottinger, your language ” 

“Well, you had no right to annoy me.” 

“You had no right to be annoyed — come, don’t 
be an idiot, you are really not a bad sort, — is he, 
Rosey?’ 

“He’s a perfect dear.” 

Anxious to restore the harmony, she leant for- 
ward and patted his hand, accompanying the ac- 
tion with such a compelling little smile that, in 
spite of himself, he was much mollified. 

“Of course he is,” chimed in Hilary. “A regu- 
lar old brick, and if I said anything to hurt your 
feelings, Pottinger, I take it back. I’m sorry, very 
sorry — I can’t say more, can I s ? Let us shake 
hands and forget it.” 

On the whole Pottinger thought it better to re- 


136 


The Third Party 

lent, and, as he considered Hilary’s remarks in the 
light of an apology, muttered, “Well, er — in that 
case,” and shook hands as graciously as he could. 

“That’s right. You see you didn’t meet us in 
the right spirit.” 

“Perhaps I didn’t,” was the dubious reply. 

“Of course not. That’s where you made the 
mistake. Now try the champagne, old boy — 

Wine and ” The restaurant door was opened, 

and a dreamy waltz, played by the orchestra, was 
heard more distinctly. “Wine and music ! Noth- 
ing like ’em to soothe the savage beast — I mean 
breast. That reminds me, I promised to go to 
the opera to-night.” 

“Why don’t you?” Pottinger enquired, eagerly. 

“And desert my old friend, never! I must 
phone, though, and explain. Excuse me a min- 
ute, won’t you?” 

The plates were being changed for a new course 
as he went to the telephone cabinet, whence his 
voice could be distinctly heard. 

“Hello — please give me Gerrard 2- 1-0-5.” 

Pottinger regarded his departure with obvious 
satisfaction. He smiled vacuously at Rose, and 
seeing that her hand was resting lightly on the 
table, and assuring himself that he was unob- 


A Nice Little Dinner 137 

served, raised it to his lips — with a sigh of pro- 
found satisfaction. 

“No longer on the ’phone,” came Hilary’s voice 
from the cabinet. “Nonsense, it’s Covent Garden 
Theatre! Eh — what? Engaged! Please try 
again.” 

“Dear Mr. Pottinger! It is so nice to see you 
looking yourself again,” cooed Rose, anxious to 
improve the occasion. “It makes me so happy.” 

“Does it really?” 

“You know it does, I was perfectly wretched 
before.” 

“I didn’t think so.” 

“I was, though ! But I had to keep up appear- 
ances, hadn’t I? You told me to.” 

“I suppose I did make rather a fool of my- 
self?” 

“How could you help it? — I mean, it was quite 
natural you should be vexed. I’m glad, though, 
you were jealous of — Wellington.” 

“Confound Wellington !” 

“Hello! Hello!” cried the voice at the tele- 
phone. “Is that Covent Garden? What? — 
you’re Bow Street Police Station ! Dash it all !” 

“It wasn’t his fault — poor fellow — he did his 
best,” said Rose. 


138 


The Third Party 

“That’s what I complain of.” 

“Don’t be silly; you dear old thing.” 

“Hello! Hello!” Hilary repeated angrily — 
“You’ve given me the wrong number. I asked 
for Gerrard 2- 1 -0-5-5? Yes, I said 5, and first 
you connect me with the police station and next 
with Charing Cross Hospital. Eh — well hurry 
up — Hello ! hello ! ! hello ! ! ! Are you Covent 
Garden? Will you kindly take a message to Box 
number — HELLO!!!! da — !! I say,” cried 
Hilary, coming half way from the box, “do for- 
give me — some idiot has cut me off now — I must 
have another shot at it. Won’t be a minute.” 

“Have you seen Mr. Brockenhurst yet?” en- 
quired Rose, while Hilary was furiously ringing 
up the exchange once more. 

“I’ve asked him to call on me early next week 
— I hope it will be possible to fix him up ” 

“Don’t put it in that uncertain sort of way,” 
she pleaded. “You’ve got to manage it some- 
how.” 

“Oh, very well, if you say so, I suppose I 
must,” chuckled Pottinger, who had now com- 
pletely regained his good humour, and once more 
caressed her hand. 

“You really mustn’t do that. Suppose anyone 


A Nice Little Dinner 


139 


should see you,” she protested. “But it is most 
awfully good of you about A1 — er — Mr. Brock- 
enhurst.” 

“Well, never mind him just now.” 

“But I do mind, because of what it may mean 
to you! And it is you I am really thinking of, all 
the time,” said the audacious little schemer, “be- 
cause — you are a perfect darling — and I hope 
they’ll make you Prime Minister.” 

He beamed delightedly. 

“One never can tell,” he said ostentatiously. 
“One never can tell.” 

“One might, perhaps,” she suggested, slyly. 
“Remember number one and number two. You 
should consult me again professionally.” 

“I certainly will,” exclaimed the enraptured 
admirer. “You must give me an appointment.” 

Taking advantage of their screened seclusion, 
he was about to kiss her hand, when Hilary, who 
had at last succeeded in delivering his message, 
rejoined them. 

“Thought I should never get through,” he ex- 
plained. “Twice the beggars cut me off. I hope 
Rosey has been looking after you. Well, anyhow 
the Opera’s off — and now we can enjoy ourselves, 
eh, Pottinger?’ 


140 The Third Party 

“We’ve been getting on splendidly,” he 
chuckled. 

He looked at her so significantly, that Rose was 
quite disconcerted. She wished Pottinger would 
not make himself so ridiculous and tried to hide 
her embarrassment by any random question that 
presented itself. His button-hole supplied the 
suggestion. 

“What is that lovely orchid you are wearing?” 
she enquired. 

“It’s an Odontoglossum Ossulstonii — orchids, 
you know, are my pet hobby !” 

“You are not the first great statesman who has 
cultivated orchids as well as politics,” she re- 
marked with unblushing flattery. For she knew 
Pottinger’s vulnerability. 

“A very appropriate combination,” interposed 
Hilary. “They both live in glass houses.” 

“And ladies with advanced ideas, throw 
stones,” chuckled Pottinger, now in high good 
humour. 

“Quite right, too,” exclaimed Rose, who had 
somewhat advanced ideas of her own. “It’s the 
only way to ventilate their grievances.” 

“And incidentally the glass, eh?” put in 
Hilary. 



GREAT HEAVENS!” HE EXCLAIMED. “MV WIFE!” 


















































A Nice Little Dinner 141 

"You wouldn’t do that, I hope,” smirked Pot- 
tinger. 

“Pm not so sure. I shall always stand up for 
my rights at all events.” 

“You’re on dangerous ground, old man. Bet- 
ter switch off,” advised Hilary. 

“Well, then, accept a peace-offering,” said Pot- 
tinger, presenting her with the flower, which she 
promptly fastened in her dress. 

“It’s a scarce and very late variety of the 
species.” 

“And I don’t mind telling you, Pot, that this 
Pomery is a very scarce and admirable variety of 
champagne — I’m afraid you have not paid it the 
attention it deserves. Let me freshen your glass, 
Rosey. Pottinger, fill up, and we’ll drink to the 
Flower of the Feast!” 

“To the Queen of Beauty, rather,” the other 
corrected. 

“Oh, wait a minute,” pleaded Rose, diving into 
her golden bag and extracting from it a tiny gilt 
box and a diminutive swansdown puff. “If I’m 
to be honoured like that, do let me powder my 
nose first — you must wait till I give the word.” 

Pottinger and Hilary both held their glasses 
fully charged as Rose accomplished this curiously 


142 


The Third Party 

feminine necessity, but, in replacing the lid of the 
trinket, it slipped from her hand, and trundled 
skittishly across the foyer. In a moment, her 
companions made a dash for its recovery, Hilary 
passing behind the table and Pottinger before it, 
but — both converging at precisely the same spot — 
their heads collided with an audible crack and 
Pottinger’s glass and contents, which he had 
omitted to set down, lay smashed and scattered 
on the floor. 

It was surely by the irony of fate, that, at this 
moment, the little party from the grill room ar- 
rived at the staircase landing. 

Pottinger, disconcerted by the appearance of 
strangers at such an unfortunate moment, looked 
up in dismay. Then the room seemed to reel be- 
neath his feet and he literally staggered back, with 
bulging eyes and an expression of terrified dis- 
may. 

“Great Heavens !” he exclaimed. “My wife!” 


CHAPTER IX 

AN INVITATION 

L OUISA POTTINGER had been so long ac- 
customed to bow to the decision of her lord 
and master, that, when he declared a visit to the 
opera impossible on Thursday evening, she ac- 
cepted his veto without remonstrance or com- 
plaint. At all events there was a busy day’s shop- 
ping before her and that would be very tiring. 
Perhaps it was just as well not to overdo things. 

By such convenient philosophy she contrived to 
forget her disappointment, and found some con- 
solation in believing that she could not be held 
responsible for causing her hard-worked Chris- 
topher to swerve from the strict path of his duty 
— on her account. 

It was therefore arranged that Janet should 
meet her at Paddington, and conduct her where- 
soever bargains were most prolific. Accordingly, 
when the day arrived, and Louisa’s train steamed 
143 


144 


The Third Party 

into the station, that aggressive lady was waiting 
on the platform. 

“Have you made out a list of what you re- 
quire, Louisa? — That’s a good job, for you usu- 
ally contrive to forget half the things you want. 
Let me see it and I’ll tell you where to go.” 

Her submissive sister handed her the paper. 

“Urn!” snapped Janet, glancing down the 
formidable list. “You could do with half of 
them, I should think — but that is your affair. 
Well, you must go to Whiteleys’ for this, of 
course — Harrods’ are the best for that — and cer- 
tainly Self ridges’ for the other, and so on and so 
on. We’ll take Whiteleys’ first. By the time she 
had been dragged remorselessly from basement 
to roof, in each of these huge emporiums, Louisa 
was reduced to a condition of limpness best de- 
scribed as resembling a rag. A belated lunch 
provided a brief rest before visiting her dentist,* 
and the bootmaker, and it was nearly six o’clock 
when, having been temporarily revived by a cup 
of tea, but too weak to resist the energetic domi- 
nance of her sister, she was dragged off to a cine- 
matograph exhibition in Regent Street. 

“I told Peter you were coming up to-day,” Ja- 
net explained, “and would be going back by the 


An Invitation 


145 


10.15, so he sa id he’d go down with you instead 
of coming with me to-morrow. He’s going to 
take us to dinner somewhere and will meet us at 
the Empress Club.” 

So poor Louisa dozed placidly through most of 
the entertainment, while Janet listened to a lec- 
ture on the Arctic Regions with an air as 
frigid as the subject. When they reached the 
Club, Rear Admiral Peter Maxwell, C.B., D.S.O., 
was waiting for them in the lobby. 

“Up to time, for a wonder,” was his greeting. 
“Only just turned up myself — I’m going to take 
you to rather a swell place for some grub. Old 
Byfleet tells me it’s the best place in town, and 
smart as paint.” 

“But Peter, dear,” protested Louisa, “we can’t 
go like this — we are perfect sights, and you are 
not dressed, either.” 

“Well, what of it*? There’s a devilish good 
grill room where you can do as you like.” 

“But why go to a place of that description at 
all?” objected Janet, who had rigid views on econ- 
omy, even with other people’s money. “There’s 
quite a nice A. B. C. in Piccadilly.” 

“A. B. C. be damned,” said the unregenerate 
Peter. “Do you think I can dine on a sausage 


146 


The Third Party 

roll? A porter-house steak is more in my line.” 

Hence the rather tired looking trio arrived at 
the Restaurant Roy ale precisely five minutes be- 
fore the member for Doxford, and, having ample 
time to spare, indulged in a leisurely meal con- 
sisting of oysters, a grill of point steak and mut- 
ton chops, followed by an omelette. At half-past 
nine they rose to leave, as it was arranged Peter 
and Louisa should drop Janet at her flat on their 
way to Paddington, and it was unfortunate they 
should have reached the vestibule, from the grill- 
room staircase, at the moment of the catastrophe 
recorded at the end of the previous chapter. 

When Louisa realised that the flushed and dis- 
concerted individual, who confronted her, was 
really her husband, her surprise almost equalled 
his own. 

“Christopher ! ! !” she exclaimed. 

“Pottinger, by gad!” chimed in the Admiral. 

“We didn’t expect to find you here, Christo- 
pher,” said Janet, with a stony glare of disap- 
proval. 

“No, indeed,” echoed Louisa. 

“Er — no — ha! ha! of course not,” stammered 
the unfortunate Pottinger. 

He was greatly disconcerted, and his brain 


An Invitation 


147 


worked rapidly to find a suitable explanation for 
his presence at the Restaurant Royale; but 
strange to say, his sister-in-law’s inscrutable ex- 
pression seemed to paralyze his imagination. 

“Is your meeting held here, dear?” Louisa en- 
quired innocently. 

“Well — er — not exactly.” 

“No, I should imagine not,” was Janet’s em- 
phatic comment. 

“And yet,” said Pottinger, still searching his 
mind for some plausible story, “in a way, it is — 
and — and Pm glad, Louisa, my dear, you should 
have turned up so unexpectedly, because” — he 
lowered his voice confidentially — “I have a little 
surprise for you.” 

“A surprise!” 

He was rapidly gaining assurance, as a way out 
of the difficulty occurred to him. 

“Yes, er — the fact is — ahem! — my friend” — 
he indicated the counterfeit Jones by jerking his 
thumb in his direction — “my friend — er — Well- 
ington Jones ” 

“Wellington Jones? Did you say Welling- 
ton?” enquired Janet, in spite of her brother’s 
remonstrance at the interruption. 

“A — er — a nephew of — er — the Prime Min- 


148 


The Third Party 

is ter’ s — a most influential supporter of mine — 
insisted on my dining with him and — er — Mrs. 
Jones. It may lead to a seat in the Cabinet if I 
play my cards well — and perhaps a knighthood. 
Lady Pottinger, eh ! ! !” he chuckled. 

Louisa made no effort to conceal her delight. 
Here was news indeed — it opened up interminable 
vistas of possibilities hitherto undreamt of. A 
house in town would then be a matter of course 
— even of necessity, and she would be presented 
at Court. As the wife of a Cabinet Minister, the 
most exclusive society would be open to her — 
how the local magnates at Maybury shrivelled 
into insignificance at the mere thought — she 
could see her portrait in “The Queen” decked in 
her presentation robes and feathers — Lady Pot- 
tinger at Buckingham Palace! — What rapture! 
and these wonderful people, the Wellington 
Joneses could do all this. 

“Oh, Chris,” she exclaimed joyously, “how 
splendid ! Do, do introduce me to your friends !” 

It was an awful necessity, but Pottinger saw 
no way out of it. There was nothing left for him 
but to comply. 

“Oh, very well,” he assented desperately, “it is 
rather an inopportune moment, but — er — since 


An Invitation 


149 


you wish it — Mrs. Jones,” he said, bringing 
Louisa to the table, “permit me to introduce my 
wife — Louisa, my — er — my friends, Mr. and 
Mrs. Wellington Jones. This is my sister-in-law, 
Miss Maxwell.” 

In his tensely nervous state, he had clutched the 
Admiral’s sleeve and dragged him forward before 
he discovered his mistake. Then, pushing him 
aside, he indicated the aggressive figure of the 
spinster — “and my brother-in-law, Admiral Max- 
well.” 

They all exchanged formal bows and set 
smiles, Rose contriving to hide her embarrassment, 
Hilary beaming with great affability at each 
in turn, whilst Louisa let loose an animated tor- 
rent of commonplaces— chiefly directed to Rose. 

“This is quite an unexpected pleasure, my dear 
Mrs. Pottinger,” said the unabashed Wellington 
Jones. “Your husband has told us so much about 
you that it is quite like meeting an old friend. 
Isn’t it, Rosey?” 

“Oh, quite,” assented Rose, somewhat nerv- 
ously. 

The striking contrast presented by the service- 
able shopping attire of the two elder ladies to the 
elegant toilette of “Mrs. Jones” struck the Ad- 


150 


The Third Party 

miral as so conspicuous that he felt it necessary 
to explain the cause, as well as that of his own 
unorthodox appearance. 

“The ladies have been spending the day in 
town,” he remarked, “and as I was detained at 
the Admiralty there was no time to change my kit 
before meeting them. It was by the merest chance 
I brought them here.” 

“A most fortunate coincidence,” said Hilary, 
“since it has given us the pleasure of meeting Mrs. 
Pottinger and yourselves.” 

He bowed gallantly to the former lady, but 
stared at Janet, with, what she personally con- 
sidered, such an audacious grin, that she tossed 
her head and sniffed defiance at his impudence. 

“I am sure you agree with me, Rosey,” he 
added, not at all disconcerted by the spinster’s 
attitude. 

“Quite,” said Rosey. “It has been a very 
charming surprise.” Then — for the sake of say- 
ing something — “I hear you have a delightful 
place in the country, Mrs. Pottinger — You are 
returning to-night, I suppose?” 

“Yes, we are catching the 10.15 — I do wish 
you could come down and see us, Mrs. Jones.” 

"It’s — it’s very kind of you,” stammered Rose, 


An Invitation 


151 


who was totally unprepared for the suggestion. 

4 ‘We should all be so delighted if you would. 
What are you doing on Sunday week?” 

This was more than Rose had bargained for 
— the position was becoming serious. She looked 
helplessly at Hilary, in a mute appeal for rescue 
from her difficulties. 

“Unfortunately,” said he, fully appreciating 
the delicacy of the situation, “we are leaving for 
the Continent on — er — Wednesday.” 

“Then come next Sunday — it is all the same 
to us.” 

“Pm afraid ” Rose was beginning to pro- 

test. 

“Now I won’t hear any excuses — I shall really 
insist upon your coming.” 

Pottinger heard his wife’s invitation with posi- 
tive terror. At all hazards he must interpose. 

“Of course, my dear, we should be delighted 
to have Mr. and Mrs. Jones at ‘Crow’s Nest,’ 
but if ” 

“I know my husband would love to show you 
his orchids,” she continued, completely ignoring 
the interruption. “He’s so proud of them. They 
have made our little place quite famous.” 

“I should love to see them, of course,” mur- 


152 The Third Party 

mured Rose, not knowing what else to say, “but 
really ” 

“I’m afraid, Louisa,” said Pottinger, wonder- 
ing how he could upset this little plan, “that, so 
far as the orchids are concerned, they are not at 
their best, just now.” 

“Nonsense, they’re magnificent,” insisted the 
Admiral, butting in when he wasn’t wanted. 
“You had better decide to come, Mrs. Jones. Go 
away!” This to Janet, who tried to attract his 
attention by pinching his arm. 

“You forget there are no trains to Maybury 
on Sundays,” growled Pottinger. 

“And what of it! You can send your car to 
Farnford Junction to meet them — it’s only six 
miles.” 

“Go away,” he angrily repeated, as the spinster 
prodded him with the ferrule of her umbrella. 
“But you’ve heard that Mrs. Jones will be away 
next Sunday,” protested Pottinger, inwardly 
cursing his brother-in-law’s interference. 

“Sunday week, Christopher — not next Sun- 
day,” the Admiral corrected. 

At this moment Peter was jerked backwards 
and nearly overbalanced by a violent tug at his 
coat tails. 


An Invitation 


153 


“Why didn’t you attend to me just now!” de- 
manded Janet, “instead of making a fool of your- 
self — trying to persuade people against their 
wills. Can’t you see, they don’t want to come, 
and Christopher doesn’t want them, either.” 

“You mean you don’t — What the blazes has it 
got to do with you, anyhow? If you object to 
pretty faces, other people don’t.” 

“Pretty faces, indeed — painted dolls and impu- 
dent hussies are more in your line — ugh !” 

She stalked off to a settee, sitting bolt upright 
on its extreme edge, and glaring balefully at the 
others, while Peter rejoined the group at the 
table. 

“We really had a dinner engagement for this 
Sunday,” “Mr. Jones” was explaining, “but of 
course if my wife can see her way to arrange 
it ” 

“Oh, yes, dear Mrs. Jones, I’m sure you might,” 
said Louisa, placing her gloved hand lightly on 
Rose’s arm. 

Rose felt it would be carrying the joke a great 
deal further than she intended but, after all, there 
was no harm in it. The invitation came from 
Mrs. Pottinger herself, and Hilary’s sang-froid 
amused her immensely. She was not at all un- 


154 


The Third Party 

willing to see more of it. As for Hilary — the 
idea appealed to him as a rattling good joke. He 
was as keen as mustard on it. 

“Well,” said Rose, demurely turning to her 
supposititious husband, “if you really think we 


“That’s settled, then,” cried Louisa, with de- 
lighted finality. 

“But I’m afraid they are putting themselves 
to great inconvenience by disarranging their 
plans,” urged Pottinger, in a last effort to defeat 
his wife. “Suppose we put it off till next year.” 

“Christopher, I’m surprised at you.” Then, in 
an undertone, “I thought you wished to cultivate 
them — You must be mad!” 

“I don’t think our engagement amounts to 
much — it can go to the Dickens, as far as I’m con- 
cerned,” said Hilary. 

“We shall be delighted, of course,” remarked 
Pottinger, with a sickly smile. He would cheer- 
fully have seen that infernal Jones at the bot- 
tom of the sea. It was one thing to have a tete- 
a-tete with his pretty little protegee, but quite an- 
other to entertain her at “Crow’s Nest” as the 
supposed wife of a supposed friend. It was a hor- 
rible situation — the climax of a ghastly evening. 


An Invitation 


1 55 


But Rose had no such scruples. She was dar- 
ing and unconventional, and loved an adven- 
ture, but there wasn’t an atom of vice in her. She 
had always had her own battles to fight, and 
didn’t care a fig what other people thought. It 
was pure devilment that won her compliance — 
and Louisa was supremely happy. 

“Let me see,” she said, “the 2.15 from Pad- 
dington gets to Farnford at 3.50. The car shall 
be sent from 'Crow’s Nest’ to meet you and take 
you back after tea. It’s such a pity there is no 
train to bring you down in time for lunch.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Hilary gaily. “The 
2.15 I think you said.” 

“From Paddington — No. 2 platform, remem- 
ber,” volunteered the Admiral. 

“Righto!” 

“Well,” said Pottinger, who felt unequal to 
a further symposium with the intolerable Jones, 
“if Mr. and Mrs. Jones won’t mind my running 
away, we’d better go down together — there’s 
nothing to keep me in town.” He then beckoned 
to the table attendant and quickly asked for the 
bill. Louisa heard his remark with some surprise. 

“But I thought you were Mr. Jones’s guest,” 
she said. 


156 


The Third Party 

“S-h-h-h ! It’s all right,” he whispered, laugh- 
ing quietly. “I’m stealing a march upon him — 
ha! ha! — delicate little attention — er — my lady, 
eh! you understand.” 

Being a very unsophisticated woman, she did 
not consider how such a delicate little attention 
might be received by a Prime Minister’s or any- 
one else’s nephew, and merely said she thought 
it very clever of him. The formidable bill hav- 
ing been paid, with the accompaniment of a 
golden “tip,” and Pottinger equipped with hat 
and cloak, Louisa took an effusive leave of her 
new friend. 

“Good-bye, dear Mrs. Jones, we shall all so 
look forward to Sunday. Good-night, Mr. Jones 
— the 2.15, remember.” 

“I won’t forget — ‘Fowls’ Nest,’ I think you 
said?’ 

“No, no — ‘Crow’s Nest!’ ” 

The Admiral’s cheery “Good-night” was 
echoed by a distinctly curt one from the spinster, 
and when Pottinger, for the sake of appearances, 
said he was delighted they were coming, Hilary 
felt he might have lied with more apparent sin- 
cerity. “And now,” said he, when the party had 
departed, “suppose we try the dessert.” 


CHAPTER X 


SUNDAY MORNING AT “CROW’S NEST” COTTAGE 

S UNDAY dawned with a cloudless sky, and 
“Crow’s Nest” was displaying the mature 
radiance of its summer beauty. As the day ad- 
vanced the heat became oppressive, with a hint 
of thunder in the air, and Louisa — with an old 
schoolmate, a Mrs. English — and Doris, who, to- 
gether had just returned from church, sat beneath 
the shade of a giant acacia on the lawn. The 
Pottinger household was always well represented 
at morning service. The high screened square 
pew in the chancel of Maybury church, furnished 
with comfortable armchairs and footstools and a 
large round table, was rarely untenanted on these 
occasions, and, with the exception of a single 
maid, who in turn remained in charge of the 
house, the servants were also in evidence in an 
adjacent and more conspicuous pen of their own. 
To-day, however, the head of the house had ex- 
cused himself, on the plea of clearing off some 
157 


158 


The Third Party 

accumulated correspondence, and the only male 
occupant of the pew was the Admiral, who, 
screened from view by the green silk curtains, 
slept serenely through the entire sermon. 

He and Janet had not yet returned, the latter 
having insisted on walking home with “dear 
Lydia Crabtree,” and taking the unfortunate 
Peter with her. 

The conversation under the acacia was mainly 
critical and far from complimentary to the Vicar’s 
sermon. Mrs. English, a bright little woman of 
sporting propensities from an adjacent county, 
considered it — “ro-ro-rotten !” She had a rather 
fascinating terminal stutter which gave a peculiar 
piquancy to her most commonplace remarks. It 
was a not unattractive impediment. 

“I noticed Peter found it soothing enough — 
he usually does,” said Louisa. 

“Perhaps that’s why he sleeps so quietly — it 
would be awful if he s-s-nored !” 

“I suppose it is that — he snores loud enough 
anywhere else.” 

“It’s the p-paralyzing c-calm of the c-c-coun- 
try,” stammered Mrs. English, boggling her 
fences rather badly for once. 

“I suppose there is nothing quite so peaceful 


Sunday Morning at “Crow’s Nest” 159 

as an English Sunday,” said Doris, languidly en- 
joying the rose-scented fragrance of the garden. 
“ In the country, I mean.” 

“Oh, yes, dear child,” Mrs. English assured 
her. “Monday is just the same or any other day 
— they’re all fuf-fuf-frightfully peaceful. That’s 
why I live half my time in tut-tut-town. The 
country wants shaking up — a nice earthquake 
would do it bub-bub-beautifully.” 

“Do you know, Mary, I often feel like that,” 
admitted Louisa. “The maddening monotony of 
quietude gets on my nerves to such an extent that 
I could shriek. I should even welcome your earth- 
quake.” 

“You wouldn’t like it, really,” said Doris. 
“We got them in India, you know. They weren’t 
a bit nice.” 

“It must be glorious out there — and you’ve 
never told me anything about it,” said Louisa 
reproachfully. “What is it like?” 

“The earthquake?” 

“No, generally.” 

“It’s gay enough, of course, when there are no 
native risings or frontier worries. Lots of regi- 
mental dances and Vice-Regal balls — and in sum- 
mer there’s Simla, with its scandal, amateur the- 


160 The Third Party 

atricals, racing, gymkhanas, and all that sort of 
thing.” 

“How Heavenly!” exclaimed Louisa ecstati- 
cally. 

“What about the cobras and the cuk-cuk- 
cholera?” enquired Mrs. English. 

“Of course, you get them as well — but they 
aren’t nearly so exciting as you’d think — once you 
get used to them.” 

“They would relieve the monotony of existence 
down here, at all events. I am becoming a mere 
vegetable.” 

“Well, dear,” said Mrs. English, “you 
shouldn’t have married a cuk-cuk-clever man.” 

“What on earth has that to do with it?” 

“Everything, Louisa. They always want their 
own way and generally get it. Don’t forget that, 
Miss Mayne, but perhaps you’re already en-ga-a- 
gaged?” 

In her peculiar circumstances, Doris scarcely 
knew if she were or not, and found it difficult 
to reply. She blushed consciously — which made 
her angry — and managed to stammer out some- 
thing about not being in a hurry. 

“Well, never forget, my dear, the only way to 
be truly happy is to marry a nice, k-k-kind idiot. 


Sunday Morning at “Crow’s Nest” 161 

I know from experience — My married life has 
been ideally perfect — Hasn’t it, Louisa?” 

“Poor dear George was never brilliant,” was 
the guarded response. 

“Bib-brilliant! He is absolutely bib-bib- 
brainless ! That’s always been his greatest 
ch-ch-charm !” 

“But Mary,” protested Louisa, “I don’t think 
you should generalize. There are exceptions, you 
know. Look at Christopher. Everyone knows 
how remarkably clever he is, and he makes the 
best of husbands.” 

“You ought to know, of course.” 

“And how unselfish he is, too — denies himself 
the smallest pleasure — the least relaxation, rather 
than neglect his public duties. Really, Mary, I 
call it noble. When we were in town for a few 
days in June — it was impossible, he said, to take 
a house there this season — you would scarcely 
believe that I saw absolutely nothing of him. 
Day after day, night after night, was devoted 
to work. He had no time to take me anywhere — 
he places duty before everything.” 

“Some people are like that,” murmured Doris. 

“But he will have his reward — the dear fellow. 
He has some most influential friends, I am glad 


162 


The Third Party 

to say — the Wellington Joneses. We are expect- 
ing them this afternoon, you know — such charm- 
ing people — I’ve quite lost my heart to Mrs. 
Jones — you never saw such perfect manners — 
he’s a nephew of the Prime Minister, I think 
Christopher said — and has simply enormous in- 
fluence. I’ve quite fallen in love with him — it’s 
all very well for you to smile, Mary — of course 
I ought to know better at my time of life, but 
you’ve no idea how fascinating he is, and his 
wife is just as delightful.” 

“ I don’t remember ever hearing you men-men- 
tion them.” 

“Well, it’s rather odd, but I never heard of 
them myself till we met in town the other day. 
Christopher has so many acquaintances, I can’t be 
expected to know them all — Mr. Jones, it ap- 
pears, knows everybody and everything that’s go- 
ing on and told Christopher he was sure to be 
offered a seat in the Cabinet and — but this is in 
the strictest confidence — you must both promise 
not to breathe a word of it — a knighthood! 
Isn’t it splendid?” 

“It’s simply glug-glug-glorious ! I wish he 
would do something for my boy, Percy — he does 
so take after his father, you know, and it’s always 


Sunday Morning at “Crowds Nest” 163 

the fuf-fuf-fool of the family who drops in for 
the best gug-gug-government billets.” 

To what extent these estimable ladies might 
have decided to use the all-powerful influence of 
Mr. Wellington Jones, it is impossible to say, for, 
just then, the voices of the Admiral and Miss Max- 
well, in loud altercation, were heard from the 
drive. A moment later they had reached the lawn 
and Peter, throwing himself into a comfortable 
basket chair, and mopping his forehead with an 
old-fashioned bandana handkerchief, while Janet, 
quite undeterred by the presence of her sister, 
Mrs. English, and Doris, continued her argu- 
ment. 

“Why in thunder can’t you drop the subject?” 
protested the Admiral. 

“Because I don’t choose to, Peter. Your be- 
havior was scandalous.” 

“So you have told me at least a dozen times 
since we left the Vicarage.” 

“Pm sure I don’t know what dear Lydia Crab- 
tree must have thought.” 

“Confound Lydia Crabtree!” 

“Dear, dear,” cried Louisa. “You two have 
done nothing but quarrel ever since you came 
down. What on earth is it all about?” 


164 


The Third Party 

“You may well ask that. I was never so 
horrified and humiliated in my life — and before 
so many people, too. I simply shuddered !” And 
she shivered again at the recollection. 

“But what has happened, dear?” 

“Oh, the usual thing,” said Janet, shrugging 
her angular shoulders and glaring indignantly 
at the delinquent. “Peter’s abominable language. 
What the Vicar must have thought, I dare not 
imagine.” 

“Peter, dear,” remonstrated the gentle Louisa, 
mildly, “I do hope you didn’t forget yourself?” 

“Forget myself be damned ! — How would you 
like to sit down on a ferocious bull pup?” 

“That’s no excuse for such unseemly exple- 
tives,” persisted Miss Maxwell. 

“Oh, isn’t it?” 

“He positively said,” continued the spinster, 
stiffening herself, and closing her eyes as if in 
horror at the recollection, “curse — the — little — 
devil!” 

“Oh, Peter!” exclaimed Louisa. 

“You’d have said the same if it had happened 
to you.” 

“No, Peter, I might have thought it.” 

“I’m sure you would,” said Mrs. English sym- 


Sunday Morning at “Crow’s Nest” 165 

pathetically. “I did the same thing once, .but 
for-fortunately I had on a thick ri-ri-riding 
habit.” 

“Peter’s language reveals a deep-rooted de- 
pravity,” declared his relentless sister. 

“Deep-rooted fiddlesticks! It’s simply a mat- 
ter of provocation. I had a chaplain on board 
the ‘Borias’ who accidentally sat on a tar bucket 
in his white ducks, and he said c Damn’ as natu- 
rally as the bo’ sun.” 

“It’s fortunate for some poor creature that 
you’re a bachelor,” remarked Miss Maxwell. 

“If she were anything like you, it most cer- 
tainly is,” was the brutal rejoinder, accompanied 
by a gurgling chuckle, “but on general grounds I 
repudiate the implied accusation.” 

“Indeed !” 

“Yes, indeed ! I appeal to Miss Mayne — don’t 
you think I should have made an excellent hus- 
band?” 

“Oh, you mustn’t ask me, Admiral,” laughed 
Doris. 

“I don’t think you understand women, Peter,” 
said Louisa. 

“I never knew anyone who did. Getting mar- 
ried is like gathering mushrooms — the only way 


166 


The Third Party 

to find out whether you have got the real thing, or 
poison, is to swallow it — and wait.” 

“If you had married,” observed Janet, “you 
might at least have learned to behave yourself, 
but” — she added decisively — “no nice woman 
would ever tolerate you.” 

Could it have been Doris’s imagination or did 
the Admiral really wink at her — at any rate his 
eyes twinkled mischievously. 

“Allow me to tell you,” he said chuckling, 
“when I was in Hong-Kong, there was a most 
fascinating little widow who — Confound it, 
Janet — what are you staring at me like that 
for 4 ?” 

“Pro-ceed Peter! If — you — please.” 

“And gratify your infernal curiosity! No, I’ll 
be hanged if I will.” 

“Oh, do go on, Peter dear,” pleaded Louisa, 
“it sounds so romantic.” 

“I think he’d better not,” said the high-minded 
Janet. “I have no wish to listen to stories of his 
guilty intrigues.” 

“What the ” 

The Admiral’s threatened outburst was checked 
by Louisa’s admonitory hand, which was raised 
in protest. 


Sunday Morning at “Crow’s Nest” 167 

“Peter — Peter, do please, be careful.” 

“Ugh!” growled the disgusted Janet. 

“Ugh!” retaliated the Admiral. “Arguing 
with a woman is never any good. It’s like going 
into a shower bath with an umbrella.” He took 
the “Observer” from a garden table, and deliber- 
ately turned his back on her. 

She glared defiance at him, but finding it im- 
possible to provoke him further, turned her at- 
tention to Doris. 

“Did you look up those dates for my lecture at 
Mudsea, Miss Mayne?” 

“Yes, Miss Maxwell, I put them by your 
manuscript.” 

“They are quite correct, I hope,” was the un- 
gracious rejoinder. 

“Oh, yes, I think so.” 

“Think! You’ve no right to think. You 
should be sure. That is what I was taught in my 
young days.” 

“In my young days,” remarked Peter, without 
looking up from his paper, “I was taught to say 
Thank you.’ ” 

Doris flushed hotly and rose to go — as she 
passed the Admiral, he raised his head for a mo- 
ment, and repeated the peculiar movement of his 


168 


The Third Party 

left eye-lid, she had previously noticed — but — 
as she afterwards confided to Mrs. English — it 
was quite a sympathetic wink and quite cheered 
her up. 

“Where is Christopher'?” presently enquired 
Janet, who reminded one of the King in “Princess 
Ida” who “always found life so extremely flat — 
with nothing whatever to grumble at!” “He 
promised to read over the notes for my lecture — I 
don’t for one moment suppose he has.” She 
knew Christopher’s shortcomings. 

“He has been busy with his letters, dear,” ex- 
plained Louisa. “I shall be so glad when he has 
someone who can really assist him.” 

“Rubbish! What does he want assistance 
for?” 

“You don’t realize the amount of work he has 
to get through, and his last secretary was so in- 
competent.” 

“I know the very man for him. Dear Lydia’s 
cousin — young Mr. Tadpole — son of the non-con- 
formist minister at Mudsea — a very pious and 
worthy youth.” 

An exclamation which sounded like “Silly ass” 
rumbled from behind the newspaper. 

“Eh?” demanded Janet. 


Sunday Morning at “Crow’s Nest” 169 

“Something I was reading,” explained the de- 
linquent, with a quiet chuckle. 

“But Christopher has already settled on some- 
one. I believe — a gentleman strongly recom- 
mended to him — a younger son of Lord Sport- 
ington.” 

“Some nincompoop, of course,” remarked her 
vitriolic sister. 

“Why the blazes should you say that?” de- 
manded Peter, once more roused by her aggres- 
siveness. “If he’s anything like his father, he’s a 
damn fine fellow.” 

“How often am I to repeat that I object to 
your abominable language. You are not on your 
quarter-deck now, remember.” 

“I wish to goodness I was. I shouldn’t have 
to listen to your infernal twaddle.” 

“Come, come, you two.” 

“My dear Admiral, you’re exactly like mum- 
mum-Mount Vesuvius — you are so ex-plo-plo- 
plosive !” 

“Well, I’m sick of her airs and gra — no, I’m 
dashed if she has any of them — her lectures — her 
fads — and tom-fooleries.” 

“I glory in them ! ! ! !” This with a lofty de- 
fiance. 


170 


The Third Party 

“Then for Heaven’s sake take ’em where you 
can glory in ’em by yourself!” 

“We — the true daughters of our Empire,” she 
was quoting from her threatened Mudsea Ora- 
tion, “are craving for our Rights.” 

“Rot! Raving, you mean.” 

“You insignificant, male creature — WORM ! !” 

“You — you — Ugh ! ! ! !” 

Just then the luncheon bell rang and Janet, 
whose morning’s wrangling had not impaired her 
appetite, made a bee line for the house, to which 
Peter and the other ladies strolled in more lei- 
surely fashion. 


CHAPTER XI 


VISITORS AT “CROW’S NEST” 

T HE meal proved anything but an exhilarat- 
ing function. It was oppressively warm 
and everyone, except Janet, seemed either limp 
or depressed. The latter continued to display 
her most aggressive mood, and Pottinger was 
certainly not himself. In spite of his light sum- 
mer suit, and rather sporting necktie, he lacked 
the airy affectation of bonhomie which usually 
accompanied this less formal attire. He was cu- 
riously silent and preoccupied. The impending 
visit of “Mr. and Mrs. Jones” disturbed his peace 
of mind more than he cared to admit. Who could 
say what the presence of the audacious chaperon 
at “Crow’s Nest” might lead to. And Louisa had 
taken such a liking to the impostor. He had been 
forced to lie about him, too, which made it more 
necessary that he should be on his guard. For 
instance, he told Janet that his friend Jones was 
an ardent suffragist, and took the keenest interest 
171 


172 


The Third Party 

in the Social Reform League. He thought such 
statements might allay the suspicion he felt sure 
she entertained. It was a great pity he had had 
to do that. It was his own fault, of course, but 
— “Bless my soul,” he thought, “what else could 
I have done in the circumstances*? I was obliged 
to explain things somehow, and now I shall have 
the infernal blackguard masquerading as one of 
my most intimate and influential friends.” He 
only hoped worse might not come of it, but, from 
his recent experience of Jones, he was not at all 
sure. In spite of this, he felt a certain thrill of 
pleasurable expectation in seeing Rosey. She 
had always fascinated him. As Louisa was so 
taken with the impudent Jones, he would try and 
slip off with Rosey and show her his orchids. 
If Jones proved as talkative as he was on Thurs- 
day, they would scarcely be missed. He could 
only hope for the best. 

After lunch, everyone meandered into the spa- 
cious lounge-hall for coffee. It was cooler there 
and the wide French windows were open to the 
garden. 

Janet settled down to work on her lecture notes, 
at the writing table— having commanded Doris 
to hunt up further references in the Encyclo- 


Visitors at “Crow's Nest" 173 

pedia — the Admiral, pipe in hand, strolled out- 
side to a chair on the verandah, while Louisa and 
Mary English were chatting together like mag- 
pies. 

Pottinger was glad to be left to his own reflec- 
tions. He lit a cigar and tried to interest himself 
in a magazine. For an hour he was left to him- 
self and dozed restlessly, finally awaking, with 
a cry, from a hideous dream in which Jones was 
openly denouncing his imposture. 

“Good gracious, Christopher, how you startled 
me. Do wake up and be sociable. Mary and I 
have been talking about your friends. I can’t 
think how it is, Christopher, dear, that I’ve never 
heard you mention the Wellington Joneses be- 
fore.” 

“Eh? well — you can’t expect me to talk about 
everyone I know.” 

“Of course not, dear. I quite understand that, 
but they are not like ordinary people. I should 
have thought you would be sure to mention a 
man of so much importance as Mr. Jones. And 
his wife, too — such a very, pretty woman.” 

“Is she? I scarcely noticed.” 

“That’s just like Christopher,” said Louisa to 
Mrs. English. “I don’t suppose he could tell you 


174 


The Third Party 

what a woman was like, or what she wore, if he 
saw her every day for a month. He’s too ab- 
sorbed in his work to have eyes for anything else. 
I often wish he were more like other men.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about that, if I were you, 
dear — I expect he can tell the difference between 
a pretty face and a plain one if he wa-wa- wants 
to.” 

“I suppose I can or I might not have married 
you, Louisa,” observed the wily Pottinger, with 
a diplomatic effort to turn the conversation by a 
compliment. 

“You got out of that, very well, Crik-Crik- 
Christopher.” 

“Got out of what?” 

“You know quite well what I mem-meant.” 

“It was very nice of you to say it, Chris dear 
— but I do so wish you’d tell me something more 
about your friends — how long have you known 
them?” 

“Oh, for ages,” he growled irritably. 

<f Where do they live?” 

“Er — in London, of course.” 

“Yes, I understand that, but whereabouts?” 
She was determined to have more details. 

“I think they’re staying in a hotel just now.” 


Visitors at “Crow’s Nest” 175 

“I shall certainly call on them when I’m in 
town.” 

“But you heard them say they were going 
abroad.” 

“I mean when they come back — have they 
any family?” 

“How the dickens should I know?” snapped 
the sorely-tried man, beginning to lose patience. 

“But I thought you knew them so well — How 
long have they been married?” 

“A few days — I mean years. Oh, hang it, I 
don’t spend my life prying into people’s private 
affairs.” 

“No, dear, certainly not — but why get so ex- 
cited about it?” 

“I’m not — only you — you irritate me by ask- 
ing so many silly questions.” 

“I’m sure I didn’t mean them to be silly — but 
surely it’s time they were here, isn’t it?” 

He made no reply, but rising abruptly, was 
about to saunter into the garden, when Parkyns, 
the butler, appeared, announcing “ Colonel Red- 
wood .” 

He was immediately followed by a brisk, alert 
little man, with a face like a coffee berry, and 
crisp white hair and moustache. He was dressed 


176 


The Third Party 

in a knickerbocker suit of rough Harris tweed, 
and looked as agile as a boy, though he was sixty, 
if a day. 

“Well, and how’s everybody? Ah, Mrs. Pot- 
tinger — you grow younger every day — how d’ye 
manage it? Hallo! Mary English, when did 
you turn up? — hope you’re goin’ to ask me down 
for the huntin’ this year, eh, what? Tell George 
I’m cornin’ anyhow. Ah, Miss Doris, what d’ye 
think of the English climate now? Bad as Ben- 
gal, isn’t it? And no punkas — hallo! Peter! — 
Hello, Pot ! Didn’t expect to see me, did you — 
fact is, I set out for a constitutional after lunch 
— must work off the superfluous energy, you know 
— and got thinkin’ of old times — found myself 
three parts of the way here before I realized how 
far I’d gone — so thought I’d come all the way 
and ask Mrs. Pottinger for a cup of tea.” 

“And how is Mrs. Redwood?” asked Louisa. 

“Oh, she’s beginning to feel damned old — like 
me — but bless her heart she’s a good plucked ’un 
still, though I tell her it’s time we began to realize 
we’re a couple of fogies, and ought to be thinkin’ 
of takin’ life seriously, instead of friskin’ round 
like a pair of two-year-olds.” 

“Have a whisky and soda, Reddy,” said Peter. 


Visitors at “Crow’s Nest " 


177 


“So I will, you old sinner, if you and Pot will 
set me the example — I say, Pot, what’s goin’ on. 
You’re got up to kill, aren’t you 4 ? — ’pon my soul, 
we old boys can give some of the young ’uns a 
lead yet — eh, what ! — go on — go on — more soda, 
if that’s for me — fill it up. Thanks ! Don’t run 
away, Miss Doris — you’re not afraid of us young 
fellows, are you? Oh — you’re coming back — 
that’s all right then.” 

“We’re expecting some visitors from town, 
Colonel. They should have been here by now,” 
said Louisa. “Oh, dear, how that horrid thing 
startled me.” She referred to the telephone bell, 
which just then rang very loudly. The telephone 
always upset her. 

Pottinger went to the instrument and took up 
the receiver. 

“Hello! Who’s that? — what? Oh, it’s you, 
Tyson — you’re ’phoning from where? — from 
Colonel Redwood’s — well, eh — what? Car broke 
down — nothing serious, I hope — eh — well, if 
you’re sure you can put it right in an hour — but 
what about my friends? — Mrs. Redwood lending 
you her car, eh? — hold the wire — I say, Colonel, 
do you hear that? — Tyson’s had a break down 
— says it will take an hour to put right and Mrs. 


178 The Third Party 

Redwood is sending my friends on in your turn- 
out ” 

“Good, that will suit me down to the ground 
— it can take me back. I’ve got to run up to 
London this evening, so it gives me more 
time ” 

“Well, hurry up with those repairs, Tyson, and 
get back in time for my friends to catch the last 
train back to town. Tell Mrs. Redwood the 
Colonel is here and will return in the car.” 

As he rang off, a motor horn was heard and a 
moment later the door bell clanged. 

“Surely that was a motor bike,” said Louisa. 
“Who can it be I wonder! Well, Parkyns^” 

“Mr. Halgernon Brockenhurst to see Mr. Pot- 
tinger.” 

Algy, in cycling kit, included the whole com- 
pany in his comprehensive bow, as Pottinger ad- 
vanced to meet him. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pottinger, I hope you 
won’t mind me runnin’ in to-day. Pm spendin’ 
the week-end at the Guv’nor’s, and he thought it 
would be a good idea for me to come over and 
see you.” 

“Ah, yes, of course! How is Lord Sport- 
ington?” 


Visitors at “Crow's Nest" 


179 


“He’s pretty fit, thanks.” 

“Louisa,” said Pottinger, taking Algy famil- 
iarly by the arm, and bringing him to her, “this is 
the young gentleman I spoke of — Mr. Brocken- 
hurst — er — Mrs. Pottinger.” 

“And you’ve ridden all the way from Sport- 
ington Hall?” 

“Oh, twenty miles isn’t much on a motor bike 
— but I hope you’ll excuse my rig.” 

“That’s all right, my boy,” Pottinger assured 
him graciously. “I thought of wiring you to see 
me on Tuesday — Pm expecting some friends who 
may arrive at any moment — one of them by the 
way, is very much interested in you — so if you 
are not in a hurry we might have our little talk 
later.” 

“Certainly, I’ll wait with pleasure.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Pottinger, please ” interrupted 

Doris, re-entering the room at that moment, but 
pausing with a little cry of delight as she recog- 
nised Algy. “Mr. Brockenhurst ! This is a sur- 
prise !” 

“Yes, rather,” returned Algy, who was equally 
unprepared for such an unexpected meeting. 
Doris was the last person he expected to see. 

“You young people know each other, then?” 


180 The Third Party 

“ I should think we did — quite old friends — 
aren’t we, Miss Mayne?” 

“Yes, indeed.” 

Her face flushed with pleasurable excitement, 
and the observant Louisa drew her own conclu- 
sions. Doris had vaguely hinted at some un- 
known lover — could this be he, she wondered. 

“You’d like a whisky and soda, after your ride, 
I expect,” suggested the hospitable Pottinger, be- 
stirring himself. 

“Thanks, I’d rather wait for tea.” 

“Then perhaps, dear,” said Louisa to Doris, 
“you would like to show Mr. Brockenhurst the 
garden. No doubt you have lots of things to say 
to each other,” she added significantly. 

“That’s right,” seconded Pottinger. “She’ll 
amuse you until we are ready for our chat.” 

“Have you seen anything of Hilary lately?” 
enquired Doris as they moved on to the verandah. 

“Yes — only the other night.” 

“Oh, do come and tell me all about him.” 

As they disappeared, the deep “tiger cough” 
warning of an automobile came from the road. 

“That sounds like my car,” said Redwood. 
“Your friends at last, I expect.” 

The wheels of a heavy touring Damiler were 


Visitors at “Crow's Nest " 181 

heard crunching over the gravelled drive, and 
again the porch bell rang out sonorously. 

Louisa looked up in pleased expectancy, and 
Pottinger was conscious of an icy chill creeping 
down his spine as Parkyns sedately announced: 
“Mr. and Mrs. Wellington Jones !” 


CHAPTER XII 


“MR. AND MRS. J ones” ARRIVE 

M RS. JONES” emerged from her dainty 
silk travelling cloak as a butterfly from 
its chrysalis — in the smartest of summer 
toilettes. 

Pottinger had made a praiseworthy attempt to 
assist her, but was adroitly forestalled by Hilary, 
who, in his role of devoted husband, determined 
to play the part without anyone else’s assistance. 
He had been most successful so far. From the 
moment he called for her at the Chelsea flat till 
their arrival at “Crow’s Nest,” his manner had 
been irreproachable. The joke was none the less 
piquant for being carried out with an assumption 
of perfect seriousness on his side — it was an ex- 
cellent bit of high comedy acting, and Rosey, 
who by this time had entered into the spirit of 
the thing con amove , followed his lead so admir- 
ably, that the other occupants of the railway car- 
riage could have had no suspicion that they were 
182 


“Mr. and Mrs. Jones” Arrive 183 

other than very happy and admirable young mar- 
ried people. 

“It’s capital practice, too,” argued the specious 
Hilary; “it's a fine way of getting my hand in 
against the time I marry Doris.” 

When therefore Pottinger hurried forward, 
hoping to relieve her of her wraps, and inci- 
dentally to smuggle her into the garden, it was 
only to find Hilary already engaged in that pleas- 
ing task, he experienced a repetition of those emo- 
tions which had so greatly disturbed him on their 
first acquaintance. With an envenomed eye, he 
watched him removing her hat pins, and when 
the hated interloper pricked himself rather badly 
in the effort, Pottinger smiled grimly and consid- 
ered it a just retribution. 

The necessary introductions having been made, 
and details of the breakdown described, Louisa 
captured Hilary, who, in common politeness, had 
to occupy the seat she indicated, and sat down be- 
side her. This gave Pottinger his chance, and — 
like a bumble bee watching its opportunity, he 
pounced on the envied flower. 

“I must show you my orchids,” he said, feel- 
ing sure that everyone would consider it a per- 
fectly natural suggestion for him to make. All 


184 The Third Party 

visitors to f< 'Crow’s Nest” had to submit to the 
ordeal. “I shan’t ask — er — your husband. He 
doesn’t care about them, I know.” 

“I should like to see them immensely,” she re- 
plied, placing her hand coquettishly on his arm. 

It was quite a pretty little hand, and believing 
he was unobserved, he could not help patting it 
affectionately. But it so happened that Janet 
looked up at that precise moment and caught him 
in the act. To cover his embarrassment and obey- 
ing a sudden inspiration, he gave the back of her 
hand a slap. It was so hard and unexpected that 
she gave a little cry of dismay. 

“Dash it — missed him, after all — that was 
either a gnat or a mosquito — hope I didn’t hurt 
you — thought I’d killed the brute.” Pottinger 
was all a-flutter with uneasiness. 

Louisa was quite concerned. She wanted to 
send for ammonia and eau-de-cologne, and 
Colonel Redwood prescribed a dock leaf. It was 
difficult to persuade them that no harm was done, 
but Janet sniffed expressively and tossed her 
head. 

“No, it has done no mischief,” said Pottinger, 
still holding her hand and pretending to search 
for the supposed wound. “There’s not a mark 


“Mr. and Mrs . Jones ' ” Arrive 185 

anywhere. And now you must come and see the 
orchids.’’ 

They had reached the verandah and Pottinger 
was inwardly chuckling at his own cleverness, 
when Parkyns and the pretty parlour-maid ap- 
pearing with the tea equipage, Louisa thought- 
fully suggested that Mrs. Jones might like a cup 
before her garden expedition. 

“By all means, Rosamond dear,” said Hilary, 
“have some tea first. You must be tired after 
your journey. It’s very kind of friend Pottinger, 
but I think you had better rest a little — then we 
can all go together.” 

“Just as you like, dear,” she answered, with 
well assumed wifely submission. 

He crossed to where she was standing and pass- 
ing his arm through hers, led her to a settee. 

“That’s a much more sensible pla-pla-plan, 
Christopher,” remarked Mary English. “Besides, 
I want you to show me that wonderful glosanthus 
you took the pup-pup-prize with.” 

“I wish you infernal meddlers would mind 
your own business,” thought Pottinger. What he 
actually said was, “Oh, anything you like, of 
course.” Then in an undertone, as he came up to 
Hilary, “Confound your interference.” 


186 


The Third Party 

Blandly ignoring this denunciation, the atten- 
tive “husband” placed an additional cushion be- 
hind Rosey’s back — relieved her of her chain bag 
which he laid on a table beside her, and arranged 
a footstool in the most suitable position. 
“There, darling,” said this model benedict, “new 
you will be more comfortable.” 

Louisa was much impressed. She was unac- 
customed to any such attentions herself, and they 
confirmed the favourable impression she had al- 
ready formed of her newly found Admiral 
Crichton. 

“How charming it is,” she quietly remarked to 
Pottinger, “to see two young people so absorbed in 
each other. Don’t you think so, Christopher^” 

“No, I don’t! I consider all public display of 
— er — affection, positively indecent.” 

“That is quite the modern idea, I suppose — 
well — I’m old-fashioned enough to like it. I can 
see you are a model husband, Mr. Jones,” she 
continued, diverting her remarks to that incom- 
parable paragon, and quite determined to stand 
her ground in spite of her husband’s disapproval. 

“Rather — I always thought I should be — as I 
said to a friend of mine only the other night, 
when I’m married ” 


“Mr. and Mrs. Jones” Arrive 187 

“When you are married,” interrupted Janet in 
severe interrogation. 

“I should have said, when I was married, I de- 
termined to treat my wife as I did all the others.” 

“Your other wives, do you mean?” asked the 
spinster. 

“No, certainly not. What I intended to say 
was, that I have always considered it a man’s 
duty to devote himself to women.” 

“To one woman, you mean, of course,” sug- 
gested Louisa. 

“One woman at a time, naturally. Unfor- 
tunately one’s instincts are frequently restrained 
owing to the perversity of other people. I’m 
afraid marital devotion is considered rather bad 
form.” 

“It ought not to be.” 

“That’s what I say. But I’ll give you a case 
in point. It will explain my meaning perfectly. 
The other evening a young couple were dining in 
a public restaurant. They had only been mar- 
ried a few minutes — I mean hours, and naturally 
they were in high spirits.” Although he was ad- 
dressing his hostess, the spinster observed that his 
glance was constantly directed to Pottinger whom, 
she also noticed, showed signs of becoming fidgety 


188 


The Third Party 

under this scrutiny. “They happened to be en- 
tertaining an elderly friend to dinner,” he con- 
tinued, “and you’d scarcely believe it, but the old 
fellow positively resented their light-hearted 
gaiety. Can you imagine anything more ridicu- 
lous? Because a man is no longer young and — er 
— attractive himself” — again he looked pointedly 
at Pottinger, who was frowning furiously — “I 
say — though he is no longer young and cannot 
expect a young and pretty girl to pay him much 
attention, is that a reason for him to object to 
the innocent happiness of others?” 

“Certainly not,” agreed Louisa. 

“I call it idiotic myself, don’t you, Pottinger?” 

Evidently some insect must have got into Pot- 
tinger’s throat just then, for he coughed violently 
and seemed unable to express an opinion. And 
his face grew quite red. 

“But why should elderly men expect the at- 
tention of young girls?” interposed Janet. 

“Quite so,” assented Hilary. “Why should 
they?” 

“Especially,” she continued, “when there are 
so many women of maturer years who would af- 
ford far more congenial companionship.” 

“That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it, Red- 


“Mr. and Mrs. Jones' 3 Arrive 189 

wood?” chimed in the Admiral. “And it would 
depend on what she was like.” 

“I should think it would depend far more on 
what he was like — don’t you, Mr. Pottinger?” 
enquired Rose with arch naivete. 

“You’re quite right, Mrs. Jones, quite right.” 

“In my opinion,” she continued, “the most in- 
teresting and attractive men are not always the 
young ones.” 

“Hear, hear!” exclaimed the Admiral. “Is 
that meant for me or Pottinger?” 

“For both of you, of course.” 

“You are quite a diplomatist, Mrs. Jones, but 
you should be careful — men are far too vain al- 
ready,” laughed Louisa. 

“And the less they have to recommend them, 
the more conceited they are,” added Janet. 

“She can’t say that of you, Christopher,” said 
Louisa, proudly. 

“Oh, yes, I included him,” was the sharp re- 
tort. 

“Impartiality is Janet’s strong point, you see,” 
growled Pottinger. 

“I hear,” said that lady, ignoring his sneering 
remark, “that you are much interested in our great 
work, Mr. Jones.” 


190 


The Third Party 

Hilary not having the least idea to what she 
referred, became airily acquiescent. “Ah, yes, of 
course — quite so !” 

“What do you think of our new Committee*?” 

“Eh? Oh, it’s a jolly fine Committee.” 

“So capable — so energetic,” enthused the spin- 
ster. 

“No doubt about the energy,” put in the Ad- 
miral. “In their last window breaking game, it 
took half the police to ” 

“I was not addressing you , Peter.” 

“No, my dear. I apologise,” he said, taking a 
bite of hot muffin. 

“Unfortunately, Mr. Jones, we are the victims 
of a tyrannous oppression and ignorant preju- 
dice, and some of our most ardent leaders are — 
for the time being — removed from their active 
sphere of work.” 

“In Holloway,” explained Peter, chuckling to 
himself. 

“I wish you would help us, Mr. Jones,” she 
went on, ignoring the interruption, “by joining 
our Executive.” 

Hilary felt this was going too far. He looked 
significantly at his host, who realised that, for his 
own sake, he must come to the rescue. 


“Mr. and Mrs. Jones” Arrive 191 

“Mr. Jones is already too much occupied, Pm 
afraid — his sympathies are naturally with the 
movement, but ” 

" “Quite so,” interrupted Hilary gaily, “my sym- 
pathies are entirely with you, Miss Maxwell, but 
— as my dear old friend is aware” — he laid his 
hand affectionately on Pottinger’s shoulder — “I 
am already pledged to see him through a matter 
of considerable difficulty: am I not, Pot? The 
slightest mistake on my part would be disastrous 
to both of us — for him especially. I feel quite 
unequal to any further responsibility for the 
present.” 

“Confound the fellow,” thought Pottinger, “if 
I don’t mind what Pm about there’ll be the devil 
to pay. He’s got me in a cleft stick and knows 
it.” 

It was quite true and Hilary was thoroughly 
enjoying it all. It was one of those reckless, ir- 
responsible jokes that delighted him, and for Pot- 
tinger — with his conceit and pomposity — he felt 
no compunction. But he little thought what was 
in store for himself — even then, the thunder bolt 
was about to fall. 

Laughing voices were heard from the garden, 
gradually drawing nearer. 


192 The Third Party 

“Here come the young people,” announced 
Louisa. “I had forgotten all about them. Come 
along,” she called, “don’t you want any tea?’ 

As Doris and Algy appeared at the window, 
Rose was sitting on the settee, with her back to- 
wards them, while Hilary was standing just be- 
hind her, so that neither of them could see the 
newcomers. 

“You must let me introduce you to these young 
people,” said Louisa to her newly arrived guests. 
“My friend and companion, Miss Doris Mayne 
- — Mr. Algernon Brockenhurst.” 

The effect of this announcement was electrical. 

Rose sprang to her feet, but remained rigid 
and terror-stricken — her back still to the window. 
As for Hilary, he stared before him with a hope- 
less and horrified expression and wondered if it 
were possible he could be suffering from some 
peculiarly hideous form of nightmare. In the 
course of a not uneventful life, he had often been 
told to go to Jericho. He devoutly wished he 
could be transferred thither at the present mo- 
ment — Paris, Palestine, Patagonia — any place 
rather than Pottinger’s would be preferable just 
now. These emotions, however, lasted but a mere 
instant. Both he and Rosey realized the situa- 


“Mr. and Mrs. Jones” Arrive 193 

tion had to be faced. They turned like a pair of 
rigid automata — and the recognition became 
mutual. 

Doris stared incredulously at her lover and 
then, with a little cry, lurched forward — just sav- 
ing herself from falling by clutching at a chair, 
while Rose, still transfixed by the sight of Algy, 
fell back, half fainting on the settee. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Janet’s discovery 

I T took Hilary just ten seconds to recover him- 
self, but it seemed an age — so much ap- 
peared to have happened in that brief fraction 
of time. 

Neither Rose nor Doris had really fainted. 
Being strong, healthy girls, it is doubtful if they 
could have done so, but they were overwhelmed 
as if by a physical blow, and breathless with as- 
tonishment and dismay. Doris stared at Hilary 
with an expression of pitiful surprise, and Rose 
shrank back in an agony of shame-faced contri- 
tion as she saw both anger and amazement on 
the face of her fiance. As for the others, they 
saw that some serious contretemps had occurred, 
though what its significance might be none of 
them could guess. 

“Whatever is the matter, dear Mrs. Jones*?” 
asked Louisa solicitously, going to Rose, who 
seemed quite unable to regain her composure and 
194 


Janet's Discovery 195 

could only mutter — rather incoherently — that she 
felt a little faint. 

“This is most curious behaviour, Miss Mayne,” 
said Janet, staring suspiciously at Doris, who was 
still trembling violently. “You seem very much 
upset.” 

“I — I — used to have these attacks sometimes in 
India,” she explained rather lamely. “If you 
don’t mind, Mrs. Pottinger, I think I will go and 
lie down.” 

“Do, dear child, by all means.” 

The poor girl was thankful to escape to her 
room. She was bewildered — indignant. In spite 
of her lover’s irresponsibility she had still be- 
lieved him sincerely attached to her. But that 
she should be so soon forgotten — that he was 
actually married — and for some reason of his 
own should be actually masquerading under an- 
other name, seemed too incredible for belief. She 
felt deeply humiliated and furiously angry. 
What had she done to deserve such treatment, and 
why did he call himself Wellington Jones 9 It 
was too incomprehensible — it seemed more like 
some fantastic dream than cold reality. She 
knew not what to think. 

Meanwhile, Rose was in a pitiable state. In 


196 


The Third Party 

spite of the smelling salts and eau-de-cologne, 
provided by Louisa, she was still almost inarticu- 
late. “Oh, what a dreadful thing to happen !” 
she said, rather wildly. She was thinking of her 
totally unexpected encounter with Algy, who had 
apparently sought the seclusion of the garden. 
“Is — is — he still there?” she asked, in a voice 
that scarcely rose above a whisper. 

“Yes, dear,” answered Hilary, quickly taking 
her up, so that the true significance of her enquiry 
might not be apparent. “I am still here. Now 
you must really try and pull yourself together. 
It will never do to give way like this. It’s noth- 
ing, really,” confided Hilary to his hostess. “I 
wouldn’t notice her too much if I were you. It 
was all because of that young man who was here 
just now.” 

“Do you mean Mr. Brockenhurst?” 

“Exactly.” 

“And what has Mr. Brockenhurst to do with 
it?” enquired Pottinger, who was not much less 
mystified than the rest of them. 

“Well, it’s a most remarkable fact, but when- 
ever she sees a fair young man with blue eyes, 
who looks about twenty-three years of age, she 
— she — nearly always faints.” 


Janet's Discovery 197 

“What a very pip-pip-peculiar thing to do,” 
remarked Mrs. English. 

“It’s a sad story,” explained Hilary, putting 
on a very serious expression, and trying to invent 
what he hoped might prove a plausible explana- 
tion. “Nearly twenty-three years ago, her twin 
baby brother was stolen from their perambulator 
when he was only six months old, and — er — has 
never been heard of since.” 

“I don’t understand what that can have to do 
with it,” interrupted Janet. 

“Don’t you? Well, it’s like this, you see — 
for the moment she thought she recognised 
him.” 

“How could she possibly do that?” 

“She couldn’t be sure, of course, he would natu- 
rally have changed since then, but she suddenly 
sees a young man — apparently about twenty- 
three. He has fair hair — so had the baby — he 
has blue eyes — that was the baby’s colour: she 
fancies she sees a resemblance to little Harold.” 

“She must have a dashed good memory,” said 
the Admiral. 

“She has, my dear sir. She has often described 
the whole scene. It was a lovely spring morn- 
ing in Kensington Gardens. The little fellow 


198 


The Third Party 

was eating Bath buns and — er — feeding the 
ducks, while she was skipping on the grass.” 

“Rather precocious children, weren’t they, at 
that age?” Janet tartly suggested. 

“They were — to a remarkable degree, that is 
why the nurse-maid did not hesitate to leave them 
alone while she walked along with a life guards- 
man. My wife remembers it all most distinctly. 
She was bunning — I mean, skipping away, when 
she called out to her little brother to count how 
many times she could keep it up — there was no 
reply — she looked around, but little Albert was 
nowhere to be seen.” 

“I thought you said his name was Harold, just 
now,” Janet reminded him. 

“Quite so,” was the unabashed reply. “Har- 
old, Albert, Peter, Christopher, Pelham, Grosve- 
nor. They called him either Harold or Albert, 
for short.” 

“I should think so, indeed,” ejaculated Peter. 

“A very romantic story,” remarked the spin- 
ster, sarcastically. “Perhaps with your marvellous 
perception of cause and effect, you can explain 
Miss Mayne’s excitement with equal clarity.” 

“Nothing easier. You heard the young lady 
say she had lived in India. So have I — beastly 


199 


Janet 3 8 Discovery 

climate — studied sunstroke and its effect in every 
form. Miss Mayne has probably been struck !” 

“Well?” queried Louisa, anxiously. 

“The result is curious. Any sudden emotion 
is liable to affect her. The blood rushes to her 
head and she must either scream or — die.” 

“I’m glad you told me. I shall have to see 
that she is more careful in future. It is really 
most interesting,” said Louisa. 

“And instructive, Lm sure,” added Janet. 
Then turning to her brother, “Peter, I want to 
talk to you,” and before he could remonstrate, 
she had seized him by the lapel of his coat and 
forcibly led him through the corridor door. 

“I think, dear Mrs. Jones, you had better come 
into the drawing-room and lie down — come, 
Mary, we’ll all go — it’s much cooler in there.” 

“That’s a good idea of yours, Mrs. Pottinger. 
A little rest will soon put her right. For heaven’s 
sake, pull yourself together,” he added to Rose, 
speaking under his breath. 

“Get me away — oh, get me away,” she whis- 
pered imploringly. 

“Leave it all to me — don’t worry! There, 
there,” he added aloud, “half an hour’s quiet rest 
will do you all the good in the world.” 


200 The Third Party 

The Admiral and Colonel Redwood had al- 
ready disappeared, the latter to find his car — for, 
after the recent disturbance, the old fellow 
thought it best to slip away without further 
adieux, and Peter, charged with his apologies, 
went to see him off. 

Left to themselves, Hilary grinned at Pottin- 
ger, who was still puzzled by the behaviour of 
Rose and Doris, and was about to explain his 
share in the catastrophe, when Algy rushed im- 
petuously into the room by way of the French 
windows. 

“So there you are.” Then seeing Pottinger, 
“Hang it — I thought no one else was here.” 

“It’s all right, Algy — come in.” 

“Don’t ‘Algy’ me, please,” he hissed furiously. 
“I’ll trouble you presently for an explanation of 
your conduct to my Rosey. Just wait till I get 
you alone!” Without waiting for a reply he dis- 
appeared into the garden, and Hilary, for the first 
time, realized the awful truth. He had called 
her His Rosey!!! Great Jupiter! — it was Algy’s 
Rosey, then, he had been galavanting with — why 
hadn’t that obvious fact occurred to him before? 
What a blind bat he had been. As the possible 
consequences of this contretemps dawned upon 


201 


Janet's Discovery 

him, his customary assurance received a decided 
check, and the conviction forced itself upon him 
that he was in a remarkably tight place. Natu- 
rally Pottinger remarked his discomfiture. 

“What does all this mean?” he asked, still ut- 
terly unable to grasp the significance of what had 
happened. 

“Mean! Great Scot! what doesn't it mean! 
— Pm engaged to Miss Mayne.” 

“To Miss Mayne!” repeated the M. P., more 
bewildered than ever. “Do you mean to tell me 
you’re engaged to my wife’s secretary?” 

“Yes! And now she thinks I’m married to 
Rosey — and so does my friend, Algy Brocken- 
hurst.” 

“Well? And what if he does?” 

“What if he does ! Confound it all, man, he's 
engaged to Rosamond.” 

“She! — engaged to him — good Lord! if the 
truth should come out!” 

“I’ve saved the situation so far, but what’s to 
be done now?” 

A tumult of emotions swept through Pottin- 
ger’s brain. It seemed to him as if he were stand- 
ing over a mine which might explode at any mo- 
ment, and utterly blast his reputation. “You 


202 


The Third Party 

must get Miss Gaythorne away at once/’ he said, 
his face twitching nervously. “The car should 
be here directly.” Then, in a burst of irritation : 
“Great heavens! A nice mess you’ve got me 
into.” 

“Come, I like that! If I care to explain mat- 
ters I can soon put everything right as far as I 
am concerned.” 

“Not for worlds, my dear fellow. You mustn’t 
dream of such a thing. What would become of 
me? No one here must ever be allowed to guess 
the truth.” 

In his anxiety, he placed his hands familiarly 
on Hilary’s shoulders, and his tone was not only 
solicitous but even friendly. 

“But surely they must have already noticed 
that something is wrong.” 

“My wife suspects nothing, but I’m certain her 
sister does. Let that woman once sniff a mystery, 
she’ll follow it till she drops. She has a nose 
like a bloodhound’s, though it looks like a par- 
rot’s. I must keep out of her way till you can 
get away. If she finds me before then, there’ll be 
the devil to pay. You’d better go to the garage, 
at the end of the drive, and see if the car is back, 
and if it is, you must smuggle Miss Gaythorne 


Janet's Discovery 203 

off at once. Once you are gone I can explain 
matters in my own way. Only get me out of 
this,” he added, almost effusively, “and I’ll be 
eternally grateful. But, whatever you do, take 
care to avoid my sister-in-law. Confound it! 
She’s coming now,” he whispered, as Janet’s voice 
was heard in the corridor. “Quick! — don’t let 
her see you — round by the shrubbery and then to 
the left.” 

Having dismissed Hilary on this errand, he 
contrived to' escape from the hall, just as Janet 
and her brother entered it. 

“I tell you, Peter,” she was saying, “there is 
something very suspicious in the behaviour of 
Mrs. Jones and Miss Mayne. Why should an 
introduction affect both of them as it did?” 

“You heard Mr. Jones’s explanation, I sup- 
pose.” 

“Pshaw ! Lies of the most obvious description. 
He was evidently trying to shield them and a 
nice mess he made of it. Did you notice the way 
he and Mr. Brockenhurst glared at each other?” 

“I saw the lad was upset — that’s why I didn’t 
speak to him. Anyhow, it’s no affair of ours.” 

“Oh, isn’t it, indeed ! There is a mystery some- 
where and I mean to fathom it. You must surely 


204 The Third Party 

have remarked how embarrassed Christopher was. 
Who can these people be, do you suppose ?” 

“You heard what he said.” 

“Yes, and I don’t believe a word of it. I in- 
tend to find out, though — ah!!! This may tell 
me something!” 

Her eye had fallen on Rosey’s gold chain-bag, 
which had been left on the table, and without the 
least compunction, she proceeded to open it. 

“Here, I say,” interposed the Admiral. “You 
mustn’t do that.” 

“And why not, I should like to know — when 
something underhand is going on, one is justified 
in taking any means to find out what it is — a 
woman always carries her secrets in her bag.” 

“But Janet!” he exclaimed, shocked by her 
audacity. 

Without heeding his protest, she rummaged 
through the bag, giving a cry of malicious glee as 
she produced a jeweled trinket from its depths. 
“Ah! of course — a Vanity box!” Forthwith she 
proceeded to examine her discovery by removing 
its elegantly embossed lid and taking out the con- 
tents of the casket. “Rubenroy’s Complexion 
Cream ! — peach bloom powder — and” — this with 
an air of withering contempt— “a powder puff !” 


205 


Janet's Discovery 

She held the offending pad of swansdown gin- 
gerly between her thumb and forefinger, as though 
she feared contamination from it. “The hussy !” 
She renewed her exploration of the bag, this time 
fishing out a tiny jeweled cigarette case, which 
she scrutinized with equal thoroughness. “Aha! 
What’s this engraved upon it? ‘To Rosey from 
Billykin.’ Now, who is Billykin? Not her hus- 
band, I’ll be bound.” She sniffed in a manner 
that conveyed a world of meaning, and then, with 
an exclamation of delight, produced a letter. It 
happened to be the one Rose had left for Pottin- 
ger at the restaurant, and his name was written 
boldly across it — “Christopher Pottinger, Esq., 
M. P.” The movement of her fingers revealed 
her intention. 

“Hang it all, Janet, you’re surely not going to 
open it,” cried Peter. 

Her reply was to slip a paper knife under the 
flap of the envelope and withdraw the letter. 
“Will return at half-past eight, Rosey.” “An 
assignation !” she cried, triumphantly. 

“If it was meant for Christopher, it evidently 
didn’t reach him,” protested her brother. 

“What difference does that make? It was 
intended to!” 


206 


The Third Party 

“But why jump at conclusions ?” 

“Do you take me for a fool? Now, who is 
Rosey?” She paused for a moment in puzzled 
thought. “Ah! Mrs. Jones, of course.” Once 
more she dived into the bag, producing a dainty 
enamelled case from which she abstracted a card 
upon which, in neatly engraved script, appeared 
the words: 


MISS ROSAMOND GAYTHORNE, 
ELYSIUM THEATRE. 


She read them with a suppressed shriek. “The 
creature! An actress! The shameless baggage !” 

“Of course — I thought I had seen her face 
somewhere,” said the Admiral, with suddenly 
awakened interest and momentarily oblivious of 
Janet’s pesence. “I thought I recognised her.” 

“You recognised her?” 

“Oh, only from picture post cards. I remem- 
ber there was one in very short skirts, standing 
upon one leg, the other raised aloft in quite a 
wonderful manner! No, no, I’m wrong — that 
was Kissie Toots.” 



Janet's Discovery 207 

“Peter ! I think you might spare me these in- 
delicate details.” 

“My dear Janet, it was only a photograph I 
saw in Bond Street,” he explained, conscious of 
his mistake. 

“In that case I am surprised you should be able 
to give me so accurate a description.” 

“Dash it all ” 

“Don’t interrupt, if you please. This discov- 
ery is of great importance. It proves what I have 
more than once suspected — Christopher Pottin- 
ger is a whited sepulchre.” 

“Oh, Lord!” 

“A moral leper, who must be denounced. It 
is my duty to, at once, acquaint Louisa with his 
true character.” 

“You had better not be in such a hurry about 
it — you have no evidence.” 

“What can be clearer? I’ll make sure of my 
facts, though. I’m afraid,” she added with a 
malicious smile, “this is going to be extremely 
awkward for Mr. and Mrs. Jones.” 

“Do you suppose his wife is deceiving 
him?” 

“I haven’t a doubt of it. It’s what a person 
of her description would do.” 


208 


The Third Party 

“Bless me, you women are all alike, what you 
suspect , always shocks you most.” 

“He conceals the fact that she is on the stage 
and she — oh, it’s as clear as daylight.” 

“What are you going to do 4 ?” 

“I shall first question him. S-h-h-sh ! Who is 
that?” 

“Pottinger — Pottinger!” cried Hilary softly 
from the verandah. 

“Speak of the — well, here he comes at all 
events,” she muttered grimly, her eyes gleaming 
maliciously in expectation of the task before her. 
The Admiral rose in a hurried attempt to escape, 
but, with a gesture, she bade him resume his seat. 

Before he was aware of their presence, Hilary 
had blundered into the room, but on seeing Janet 
would have retired : unfortunately it was too late. 

“I desire a few words with you, Mr. Jones,” 
announced the spinster in her most uncompromis- 
ing tones. 

“Would you mind leaving it for a few min- 
utes? I’m looking for Pottinger.” 

“I, too, wish to see Mr. Pottinger,” she in- 
formed him, acidly, “but first I have something 
of great importance to say to you.” 

“Oh, certainly,” sighed Hilary, seeing that it 


Janet’s Discovery 209 

was impossible to excuse himself and taking a 
chair with helpless resignation. 

“The matter is a very painful one for me to 
approach,” she continued, with deliberate pre- 
cision, “but if I am any judge of character, you 
are a man who would prefer to face facts — how- 
ever unpleasant — rather than remain in ignorance 
of matters that seriously imperil your honour 
and happiness.” 

Hilary wondered what she was driving at and 
looked at the Admiral for enlightenment, but the 
latter was very ill at ease himself, and averted 
his face. 

“What I have to say,” she went on, “will doubt- 
less surprise and shock you, and I regret it the 
more, since the injury you have received is due to 
the infamous behaviour of one of my own rela- 
tives.” 

“What on earth is coming next?” thought Hil- 
ary, but he allowed her to continue without in- 
terruption. 

“My brother-in-law, Mr. Jones, — the man 
whom we have as a pattern of moral rectitude — 
I have just discovered, is without conscience or 
scruple ! He does not hesitate to pollute the sanc- 
tity of her domestic hearth, but sees no shame in 


210 


The Third Party 

betraying the confidence of his friend and of alien- 
ating the affection of his friend’s wife.” 

“You don’t say so,” gasped Hilary, wonder- 
ing how much she really knew. 

“You naturally find it difficult to believe — 
unfortunately it is too true, and now it is for you 
to act.” 

“But what have I to do with it?” he asked 
lamely. 

“Is it possible you do not understand?” she 
asked, regarding him with surprise, and handing 
him the incriminating letter. “Then you had 
better read that.” 

He looked at the note and at once recalled the 
incident at the restaurant. 

“H’m, looks rather fishy, doesn’t it?” 

“You do not appear to realize that the lady 
involved is your wife!” 

“Ah, yes — very true — that hadn’t occurred to 
me — I mean, it does make a difference, doesn’t 
it? I shall have to remonstrate with Pottin- 
ger.” 

“Remonstrate, Sir,” almost shouted the as- 
tonished spinster. “If you are a man, you’ll 
horse-whip him first, and afterwards expose his 
infamy to the world.” 


J anefs Discovery 211 

“But — wouldn’t that be rather drastic*?” he 
protested feebly. 

“I must say you take it pretty coolly,” re- 
marked the Admiral. 

“I think I understand Mr. Jones’s attitude,” 
said Janet. “His affection for his wife makes 
him wish to spare her, but, when every moral 
law is set at defiance, personal consideration is 
out of place, and I, for one, cannot permit it. If 
you won’t act, Mr. Jones, it must be my painful 
duty to do so. I am now going to find Chris- 
topher, and denounce him — come, Peter!” 

“I think you might leave me out of it,” 
grumbled her brother, who had no desire to be 
drawn into this threatened domestic upheaval, 
but Janet was not to be denied and flounced 
through the window commanding him to follow. 
The Admiral, no doubt, finding that the lesser 
evil was to obey, went after her submissively 
when a significant cough from Hilary caused him 
to turn. 

“Half a minute, for Heaven’s sake,” implored 
that unhappy individual. “I’m in a devil of a 
mess.” 

“So it seems, my young friend,” was the dry 
rejoinder. 


212 


The Third Party 

“And if your admirable sister carries out her 
programme, there’ll be the deuce to pay, all round. 
I’ll explain everything presently, but help me to 
find Pottinger, before she gets hold of him.” 

“I pity him, when she does.” 

“She mustn’t! Keep her out of his way, if 
you can, until I have warned him.” 

“Peter! Peter!” came Janet’s voice from the 
garden. 

“Coming, my dear,” shouted the Admiral, to 
the accompaniment of other words, fortunately 
less audible, and with a promise to do his best, 
hurried after the impatient lady. 

The situation was critical, and decidedly un- 
pleasant. Hilary now fully realized that every 
moment he remained at “Crow’s Nest” was 
fraught with danger, but there was no sign of the 
automobile and Pottinger had disappeared. No 
doubt he was hiding from Janet somewhere. At 
all hazards he must be found. 

He had reached the window, intending to ex- 
plore all the outbuildings if necessary, when he 
was confronted by Algy Brockenhurst. 


CHAPTER XIV 


A CHALLENGE 


LGY was in a towering passion. The amaz- 



1 \. ing discovery of Rosey’s faithlessness, and 
of his friend’s treachery, for so it appeared to 
him, had utterly prostrated him for the moment. 

He had been cruelly and wickedly deceived. 
The girl he had pinned his faith to had thrown 
him over, and was actually married to his friend. 
They must have been carrying on, he thought, at 
the very time he believed her to be working heart 
and soul in his interests. What a blind idiot he 
had been. He recalled now, what Hilary had 
said at the restaurant. “I shouldn’t make too 
sure of her if I were you.” Those were his very 
words — and to think Rosey could do a thing like 
that — it seemed impossible to believe, yet — here 
they were passing themselves off as Mr. and Mrs. 
Jones. What could be the meaning of it? He 
wandered disconsolately about the garden, trying 
to collect his thoughts and pull himself together. 


213 


214 


The Third Party 

It couldn’t be one of Hilary’s insane jokes, surely; 
— for a moment he clung to the idea — even if it 
were so — and the thing seemed too wildly im- 
probable to be possible — it was inexecrable 
taste, and revealed his Rosey in a new and sinister 
light. To think that she should have fallen a 
victim to Hilary’s inveterate love making. And 
Doris, too — poor Doris — he pitied her; they had 
been pals in India before he had chucked the tea 
planting experience in Darjeeling. What could 
her feelings be*? That remorseless scoundrel 
didn’t care — not he. Algy was working himself 
up into a perfectly murderous mood — he must 
find the rascal and have it out with him. It was 
in this frame of mind that he met Hilary just as 
the latter had reached the open window. 

“You scoundrel!” burst out Algy, explosively. 

“Well, tell me about it later — there’s a good 
chap, I’m in a hurry now,” said Hilary in per- 
fectly unruffled tones and trying to dodge past 
him. 

“You can’t get out of it like that. I want an 
explanation.” 

“Don’t be an ass — I tell you I can’t wait now.” 

“Nor can I. You have deceived me, behaved 
like a cad — you’ve married the girl you knew I 


A Challenge 215 

was engaged to and are here masqueradin’ as 
somebody else.” 

“My dear chap, you are talking bally rot.” 

“Do you deny it*?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“What about Wellington Jones?” 

“I can explain that all right.” 

“Indeed! and what about Rosey?” 

“Well, you don’t suppose I’ve married her, do 
you?” 

This was the last straw. Could human base- 
ness sink lower than this? 

“You infernal blackguard!” cried Algy. In 
his fury he struck at him, but Hilary adroitly 
turned the blow aside. 

“Steady, old chap, don’t get excited. How was 
I to know she was your Rosey — you don’t really 
suppose there is anything in it, do you?” 

“You — you utter rotter!” was the furious re- 
ply. “I can’t make a scene here, but there is one 
course open to you. You must meet me to-mor- 
row evenin’ at Boulogne. We can settle this 
matter on the sands and” — he hissed the words 
venomously — “with pistols !” 

“But you silly ass, why should I? I hate 
Boulogne — the very name makes me seasick. 


216 The Third Party 

You’d better try and simmer down and let me 
explain ” 

“Simmer down! Explain! Ye gods! Just 
listen — I’ve heard enough and seen enough — 
you’ve lied to me and you have the damned cheek 
to come here under the very roof where the girl 
you have jilted is living.” 

“How was I to know? That’s my beastly bad 
luck!” 

“Rather unfortunate for you, isn’t it?” was 
the sarcastic rejoinder. 

“I should think it was,” observed the much- 
injured Hilary, “and I shall have the deuce of 
a job to make it up with Doris.” 

“You think that will be possible, do you?” 
gasped the astonished Algy. 

“Why of course, dear chap, why shouldn’t I?” 

“Well, that’s your affair — but first of all what 
about Rosey?” 

“Well, what about her? — she is yours so 
far as I am concerned — I don’t want her.” 

“This is infamous !” 

“Nothing of the sort,” protested Hilary, care- 
lessly. “It was only arranged for a bit of 
fun.” 

“Fun!” This incorrigible blackguard can act- 


A Challenge 217 

ually speak of it as “fun,” he thought. “Fun! 
Great heavens ! ! !” 

“You don’t understand,” persisted the un- 
abashed Hilary. “Do show common sense — you 
want Rosey, well, I wish to goodness you’d take 
her. She’s caused me trouble enough I can tell 
you.” 

“I’ll take good care she is protected from such 
a blackguard as you.” 

“Come, I say ” 

“I won’t hear another word.” He hurried to 
the window, but turned as he reached the ver- 
andah. “Remember,” he said, “ten o’clock — on 
the sands — outside the Casino.” And the next 
moment he had disappeared. 


CHAPTER XV 


A DETECTIVE FROM SCOTLAND YARD 

HIS is a pretty kettle of fish,” thought Hil- 



-I» ary. “I wonder what has become of that 
infernal Pottinger.” 

He was once more setting off to find him when 
Doris appeared at the entrance to the corridor. 
She was very pale but faced him steadily and 
tried to conceal the agitation she felt. 

“One moment, if you please, Mr. — Jones.” 

“Jones is not my name.” 

“Perhaps not, but it seems I have known you 
so imperfectly that I may have been mistaken as 
to that — as I have been in other things.” In 
spite of efforts to control her feelings she spoke 
with no little emotion which Hilary did not fail 
to notice. It was easy to see the poor girl was 
greatly distressed, and in an instant he was all 
contrition. 

“Doris,” he exclaimed. 

“You have no longer the right to call me that. 


218 


A Detective from Scotland Yard 219 

Once I thought you cared for me — I find I was 
mistaken.” 

“Don’t say that, Doris — give me the chance 
and I can explain everything — I only ask you to 
believe ” 

She held out her hand to silence him. 

“It was to be sure of your professed love that 
I insisted on our parting for a year. I knew — if 
at the end of that time your feelings had not 
changed — I might trust you. I knew you were 
wayward and impulsive — I never guessed you 
were heartless and dishonourable.” 

“But I am not!” protested Hilary. “I am a 
pattern of constancy and devotion.” 

“To whom?” she asked, mockingly. 

“To you, of course!” 

“Indeed!” 

“Appearances may be against me.” 

“Your wife, for instance.” 

“Oh, that’s nothing.” 

“Nothing!” she said, with withering sarcasm. 

“Well, but suppose she isn’t my wife.” 

“I shall suppose nothing so shameful.” 

“Doris, dear, I love you as devotedly as ever.” 

“Oh !” she cried, indignantly. “How dare you 
—HOW— DARE— YOU !” 


220 


The Third Party 

“For goodness’ sake, Doris, don’t take it like 
that. You don’t know what a beastly mess I’m 
in already. Don’t make it worse. I intended all 
for the best!” 

“You know what a certain place is paved 
with.” 

“Only from hearsay; but I have noticed when- 
ever I really mean well, it’s a moral cert I come 
the most awful cropper.” 

“Why call yourself Jones?” 

“I don’t — that was Pottinger’s doing.” 

“What has he to do with it?” 

“Everything, but I can’t explain now, — there 
isn’t time, and I must find him at once. Won’t 
you trust me? If you don’t I won’t answer for 
the consequences — there will be bloodshed, at 
least. I know it all looks horribly black against 
me, but when I tell you that things are not in the 
least what they seem to be, I must ask you to be- 
lieve me. I admit I have been a fool, that’s the 
worst that can be said of me — won’t you try to be- 
lieve me, Doris?” he urged with great sincerity. 
“Say you’ll trust me — it’s really true and I’m get- 
ting desperate — come, dear.” He spoke so ear- 
nestly and with a depth of feeling so foreign to 
him, that she was sincerely moved. 



CRY OF SUPPRESSED HORROR DROVE THEM APART 

























































































































A Detective from Scotland Yard 221 

“Oh, Hilary, if I could.” 

“You can, you must ! There, say it is all right, 
dear, and help me.” 

Their eyes met and silently she smiled forgive- 
ness. The next instant he had taken her in his 
arms and kissed her. 

A cry of suppressed horror drove them apart. 
Before them, like a bird of ill omen, stood Janet 
Maxwell. 

“You shameless hussy! You — you aban- 
doned libertine,” she said, addressing them each 
in turn. “As for you, Miss Mayne, I shall in- 
form my sister what sort of person she has been 
fostering beneath her roof.” 

“I’m afraid the consequences may be serious 
if you do that,” remarked Hilary. 

“I intend them to be.” 

“Indeed I may say disastrous.” 

“I’m glad you appreciate the position.” 

“I’m afraid you don’t.” 

“No impertinence, Mr. Jones, if you please. 
There is something going on here that I do not 
understand.” 

“You are quite right — there is.” 

“And I shall at once enlighten my sister as to 
your true character.” 


222 The Third Party 

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” suggested Hilary, 
blandly. 

“I daresay not, but you plead to me in vain,” 
she said severely. 

“Pardon me, I am doing nothing of the sort.” 

“But, Miss Maxwell,” interposed Doris. 

“Silence, minx! Don’t you dare to address 
me.” 

Doris was not without a temper of her own 
and the spinster’s aggressive manner nearly led 
her into an indiscretion. 

“Allow me to tell you that this gentle- 
man ” 

“Is here in the execution of a serious and im- 
portant duty,” interrupted Hilary. Then with 
an alert change of manner he pointed to the 
settee. “Sit down, please.” 

Miss Maxwell was so dumbfounded by his 
stern note of command that she fairly dropped 
into the seat indicated. 

“Miss Mayne, be good enough to leave us,” 
said Hilary in a sharp business-like voice, but at 
the same time casting a significant glance at Doris. 
“There are certain facts which — as Miss Max- 
well is labouring under an entirely erroneous im- 
pression — I think it advisable to impart to her, 


A Detective from Scotland Yard 223 

but which — being of a family nature — I must 
communicate in private.” 

Then while Janet was far too bewildered to 
notice what was happening, whispered, “Run 
away, dear, and trust to me.” 

She gave him a questioning look, which he 
answered by a reassuring nod, and, being left to 
himself, drew up a chair and faced the aggres- 
sive lady. 

“Now, sir, perhaps you will be good enough to 
explain your meaning?” she demanded, somewhat 
nervously. 

“Certainly, madam. Pm a detective from 
Scotland Yard!” 

“A detective!” The brusque delivery of his 
reply so startled her that she gave a little spring 
from the settee, landing against the extreme end 
of it where she sat immovable — a figure of al- 
most pathetic dismay. 

“I should not have disclosed the fact, but your 
meddlesome interference, and groundless sus- 
picions, threaten to imperil the success of my in- 
vestigations which affect the political career of 
• — er — my employer — Mr. Pottinger.” 

This was indeed a confounding explanation — 
could it be true, she wondered. 


224 The Third Tarty 

“And your wife?” she asked. “Is she a detec- 
tive, too?” 

“Certainly. In cases like this we work to- 
gether. In other cases separately, and under 
other names.” 

She tried to realize this new aspect of affairs. 
Truly, it was all very bewildering. 

“I see — that might explain it, certainly, but” 
— again she became suspicious — “why should 
you embrace Miss Mayne?” 

“Part of my method, madam. In the pursuit 
of truth I should not hesitate to embrace even 
you.” 

“Sir!” In her surprise or alarm — whichever 
it may have been — she again sprang up, very 
much in the fashion of a Jack-in-the-box, but 
subsided again amidst the cushions. 

“Don’t be alarmed,” Hilary assured her. “It 
won’t be necessary.” 

“If all this is true, how is it that my brother 
has not mentioned the matter to any of his 
family?” 

“That was by my advice.” 

At that moment Pottinger peeped in through 
the window. Fortunately, Janet — sitting with 
her back to it — was unaware of this, and a sign 


A Detective from Scotland Yard 225 

from Hilary was sufficient to warn him not to 
enter. 

“But, Mr. Jones ” began Janet, bent on 

further investigation. 

“Madam, I hope I have said sufficient,” he 
said, interrupting her with curt finality. “The 
nature of the business I am engaged upon I am 
not at liberty to disclose — and it is my duty to 
warn you,” he continued severely, “that any ac- 
tion on your part that may defeat the ends of 
justice, or reveal my identity and real purpose 
here, will be a very serious matter for you, and 
— everyone. Now be good enough to leave me 
to my investigations — and remember, not a word 
to anyone. I have your promise?” 

“Certainly, since you say it is necessary,” she 
reluctantly consented. 

“Thank you,” said Hilary, politely. “That is 
all I require.” 

Utterly defeated, puzzled and alarmed, the 
much-chastened Janet rose and, ascending the 
staircase, sought the seclusion of her own chamber 
in which to meditate on these strange happenings. 

Secure from any interference for a time, Hilary 
strolled to the window. 

“You can come in, Pot,” he said. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE STORM 

I T was a disreputable and demoralized Pottin- 
ger that obeyed the invitation. His plump 
florid face had lost its colour and a furtive anx- 
iety replaced his usual benign expression. His 
clothes were covered with dust and he looked 
unkempt and disreputable. 

“Has she gone*?” he whispered hoarsely. 

“Yes, thank goodness — so she didn’t And you, 
after all.” 

“No, but I had to hide in the potting shed — it’s 
a mercy she didn’t look inside. See the state I’m 
in.” He went to a side table, producing a clothes 
brush with which he endeavoured to remove the 
litter and dirt that clung to his grey flannel 
lounge suit. “Oh, what a terrible woman — if 
she had only discovered me in my present condi- 
tion, it would have been all up with me.” 

“Here — let me put your tie straight,” said Hil- 
ary. “There, that’s better — now you look more 
226 


The Storm 227 

like yourself. Good Lord, what ails you — have 
you a fit of the ague*? — come, buck up.” 

Pottinger had dropped limply into a chair. 

“No need to worry — just yet, at all events. 
I’ve spiked her guns for the present,” Hilary as- 
sured him. 

“You have! My dear Jones !” He sprang up, 
effusively shaking hands with his quondam tor- 
mentor. “I can never be sufficiently grateful to 
you.” 

“But there’s no time to lose,” urged Hilary. 
“Miss Gaythorne and I must get away before she 
has time to reconsider matters.” 

“Of course, that is most important,” agreed 
Pottinger, “but where on earth can the car be? 
It should have been here before this.” 

“Oh ! There you are !” came a voice from the 
corridor. 

They both started guiltily at this interruption 
and were infinitely relieved to find it was only 
Rose who had disturbed them. 

“I’ve been asleep, I think,” she said. “Isn’t it 
time we were starting?” 

“It is indeed, but the car hasn’t come back yet 
and by the look of the sky we are going to have a 
downpour.” 


228 


The Third Party 

Just then the telephone bell rang and Pottinger 
went to the instrument. 

“Hello! Yes. That you, Tyson? — good 
heavens, man, where are you? W-H-A-T — dash 
it all !” he exclaimed, turning to the others, “he’s 
still at the Junction.” Then again turning to the 
receiver, “Eh! A cylinder fractured. Can you 
do nothing ? — no other car to be had, do you 
say? What about Colonel Redwood’s? If you 
hurry there’ll still be time to catch the train. 
What’s that? Merciful heavens! Redwood has 
left in his car for London.” 

“You don’t mean to say we can’t get away! 
Isn’t there a car to be had anywhere?” demanded 
Hilary in alarm. 

“Not the ghost of one, so far as I know,” 
groaned Pottinger. 

“What is to be done?” cried Rose almost hys- 
terically. 

“There’s only one thing for it,” said Pottinger 
decisively, “you must walk to the Junction.” 

At that instant there was a vivid flash of light- 
ning and the loud cannonade of distant thunder 
was heard, while the rapidly darkening sky pro- 
claimed the approach of a violent storm. 

“But we can’t walk six miles in forty minutes, 


The Storm 229 

and just look at those clouds,” protested Hilary 
helplessly. 

Another flash and a burst of thunder, like the 
explosion of a twelve-inch shell, nearly deafened 
them. 

“Oh! Oh !” cried Rose in alarm. “Just listen 
to that and look at the rain — it’s a perfect del- 
uge.” 

“For a moment, perhaps — it will soon pass 
over,” said Pottinger reassuringly. “Why, it is 
ever so much lighter already.” 

And so it was, momentarily, for a most appal- 
lingly vivid, prolonged, and vicious blaze of elec- 
tric fluid lit up the place with a fierce and ghastly 
glare. Alarming sounds, meanwhile, burst from 
the thunder clouds above, fading away like the 
rumble of distant artillery. 

“O-h-h-h ! ! !” shuddered Rose in dismay. “It’s 
getting worse than ever. W-w-what’s to be 
done?” 

“It’s quite certain you can’t stay here,” pro- 
tested the distracted Pottinger. “It’s sure to be 
over soon. I can lend you rain coats.” He rushed 
to a coat cupboard beneath the staircase, return- 
ing with two long mackintosh coats, and flung one 
over Hilary and in the other attempted to en- 


230 


The Third Party 

velop poor Rose. Hilary disengaged himself 
from the garment, which he flung on the floor. 

“Rain coats be — — ” He got no further than 
that. 

As if swept by a cyclone, two drenched figures 
with up-turned collars came flying from the gar- 
den, bursting open the glass doors and panting 
with their exertions. The Admiral and Algy had 
been fairly caught and now stood dripping like a 
couple of half-drowned rats. 

“Great Neptune! what a deluge,” said the 
former, and then, seeing Rose still struggling 
with the mackintosh, “Why, you people are never 
thinking of going out in this water spout, are 
you?” 

“No, Pm dashed if I am,” said Hilary. Then 
turning to Pottinger, he added quietly, “Not for 
half a dozen Janets.” 

“But here are umbrellas, my dear fellow. It 
can’t drown you, anyway.” 

“Pll take precious good care it doesn’t,” was 
the reply. 

“But really,” pleaded Rose, “I think we must.” 

“Of course you must,” urged Pottinger. 

“Well, I must find a dry coat,” broke in the 
Admiral, “so I’ll leave you to argue it out — and 


The Storm 


231 


where’s young Brockenhurst? He’ll want one, 
too. Why, where has the young fool gone? Oh, 
there you are,” he exclaimed, catching sight of 
Algy, who, on seeing Hilary, had retired sulkily 
into a corner. “Come, young’un, I’ll find you 
something to get into while Parkyns dries that 
jacket of yours.” On which hospitable mission he 
carried him off. 

Meanwhile the argument between Hilary and 
Pottinger continued volubly. 

“I know what I’ll do,” said Hilary at last. 
“I’ll ’phone to London and get a car sent 
down.” 

Just as he reached the instrument, there was 
another blinding flash, another ear splitting thun- 
der burst, and a crash of broken glass from the 
adjacent conservatory. These sounds were fol- 
lowed by a wild shriek which appeared to ema- 
nate from Miss Maxwell, whose stoical nature 
was not proof against the terrors of the storm. 
She was followed by Doris, who, it must be con- 
fessed, was rather frightened herself and at the 
same time, the Admiral and Algy appeared; the 
first in a dressing gown and the latter in an old 
Norfolk jacket. In the general dismay, Pottin- 
ger appeared to forget his terror of the spinster 


232 The Third Party 

and indeed, seemed scarcely conscious of her 
presence. 

4 ‘What on earth is happening now?’ he asked 
nervously. 

“Pll go and see,” volunteered his brother-in- 
law, while Algy gallantly attempted to arrest the 
fears of the ladies. 

Meanwhile, Hilary was persistently ringing 
the telephone. 

“Are you there ?’ he shouted. “Hang it, some- 
thing’s gone wrong with the blessed thing. I can’t 
hear a sound. Hello! Hello! Hello!” 

“I’m afraid it’s no use, your helloing,” said 
the Admiral, returning from his investigation, 
“the telephone attachment to the roof has been 
struck by lightning and has crashed through the 
conservatory.” 

“No wonder I can’t get an answer,” said Hil- 
ary in dismay. “Now what’s to be done?’ 

“Our last hope gone !” cried Rosey helplessly. 

“Not at all,” urged Pottinger. “You’ll have 
to walk to Mayfield; it’s only five miles and you 
can get a fly at the ‘Plough and Harrow’ which 
will take you to Dalesbury on the main line — 
there are several trains from there — only for 
heaven’s sake, hurry up.” 


The Storm 


233 


Rose passively permitted him to help her into 
the rain coat while Hilary stood irresolutely look- 
ing on when Louisa joined them. 

“What a dreadful storm,” she said. Then no- 
ticing Rose in her long Burberry, and looking at 
the umbrellas her husband had produced, “Why, 
what is the matter with you all? And what are 
you doing in that coat, Mrs. Jones? You are 
surely not dreaming of going out, are you? Why 
hasn’t someone turned on the lights?” She 
switched on the current and for the first time saw 
the dismay on the faces of her visitors. 

“The car has broken down badly,” Pottinger 
explained, “and they’ve got to walk to Mayfield 
— they can drive from there to Dalesbury, you 
know.” 

“Walk?” cried Louisa, horrified by the sug- 
gestion, “in a storm like this? What on earth can 
you be thinking of, Christopher? I am not at all 
sure they could get a train if they did, and you 
know there is no accommodation at the Inn. Be- 
sides, you know very well the Blue Room is un- 
occupied — Mr. and Mrs. Jones must stay for the 
night!” 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE BLUE ROOM 

D INNER was over, but although the fury of 
the storm had abated, the wind had risen 
and outside the rain beat gustily against the win- 
dow panes. 

The inmates of “Crow’s Nest” and their visit- 
ors — with the exception of Algy Brockenhurst, 
who had mysteriously disappeared — retired to the 
hall for coffee, with faces which eloquently ex- 
pressed their emotions. 

Louisa Pottinger’s well-meaning suggestion 
that Mr. and Mrs. Jones should pass the night at 
the cottage, had presented a new and alarming 
problem to Hilary and Rose. They both felt 
that nothing short of frank confession was left 
for them. Apart from this dire necessity, even 
Hilary’s alert imagination could suggest no other 
solution. The appalling situation in which he 
found himself had oppressed him all through din- 
ner and he was still puzzling his brain to find 
234 


The Blue Room 


235 


some way out of it. As for Rose, her emotions 
can be better imagined than described — she would 
confide everything to that kind Mrs. Pottinger, 
she decided — but it would be a dreadful thing to 
do — how could she possibly excuse such a mad 
adventure. The more she thought of it, the more 
impossible it seemed — why had she ever con- 
sented to lend herself to such a wild and reckless 
joke. As for Pottinger, his state of mind was, if 
possible, even more pitiable still. To admit the 
actual truth would be an impossibility, without 
revealing facts which he determined his wife must 
never know. 

Although the Admiral and Janet were far from 
guessing the truth, they saw that something had 
seriously disturbed the Joneses and Doris, and 
both were convinced that Pottinger knew what it 
was. Everyone appeared constrained and arti- 
ficial — even Louisa was affected by the sudden, 
and to her, unaccountable depression of her 
guests. 

As Parkyns stood before Rose, with his salver 
of coffee cups, she did not appear conscious of his 
presence. After waiting a full minute, during 
which space of time all eyes were turned upon 
her, he ventured to attract her attention. 


236 


The Third Party 

“Coffee, Madam?’ 

Roused by this invitation, she looked at him 
in a half-dazed fashion. 

“Eh — oh, yes, thanks.” 

She took the cup but seemed scarcely aware 
that she had done so. Parkyns remained a mo- 
ment expecting her to take cream or sugar, but 
she, all unheeding, continued to stare vacantly 
before her, holding the cup and saucer stiffly in 
her hand and making no efforts to drink its con- 
tents. 

Again the thoughtful butler ventured to remind 
her of his presence. 

“Sugar, Madam, — cream ?’ 

She again looked up with a blank expression. 

“Eh — oh! — no, thanks.” 

Parkyns passed on to Janet and Louisa, who 
each took a cup, and then to Doris, who declined, 
and next to Hilary, who absent-mindedly helped 
himself to about six lumps of sugar before he dis- 
covered what he was doing. 

The Admiral was served last, and on plunging 
the tongs into the sugar bowl, found it empty. 

“Where the devil is the sugar?’ he cried. 
“Here, get me some sugar !” 

Parkyns silently obeyed, and Hilary, having 


The Blue Room 237 

ruined his coffee, sat down the cup, while the 
others sipped theirs in silence. 

The silence was so pronounced and prolonged, 
that Louisa, who was the only one except Mary 
English who could not account for it, sought to 
rouse her guests by an expressive “Ahem.” It was 
echoed by an audible sniff from Janet, but other- 
wise had no effect as it might have done, if Mary 
English had not been too absorbed in a book to 
notice it. At last the Admiral, who, by this time, 
had been supplied with sugar, became conscious 
of the unusual behaviour of his companions, 
stared at everyone in turn, and after a momentary 
pause, ejaculated, “Well, I’m damned!” 

“Peter!” reproved Janet. 

“Well, aren’t you? What is it? — a seance of 
some sort?” 

“Silence,” admonished his sister. 

“Yes, that is obvious, too much of it for me.” 

It clearly had a somnolent effect upon him, 
for he folded his hands, settled himself comfort- 
ably back in his chair and composed himself to 
sleep. Still the silence continued, and Louisa, 
who was momentarily growing more and more 
uncomfortable, turned to Rose with a desperate 
effort to break the uncanny restraint. “A little 


238 The Third Party 

more coffee, Mrs. Jones?’ she nervously ven- 
tured to suggest. 

“No, thank you.” 

Louisa was much discouraged, but bravely per- 
sisted. “It’s very oppressive, don’t you think 4 ? I 
am glad the storm is over.” The observation 
passed unnoticed — still she continued. “Would 
you like the window open, Mrs. Jones?’ She 
addressed her so pointedly that Rose was recalled 
to herself. 

“Oh, no, thank you,” was the terse reply. 

Just then, Parky ns and Curtiss appeared from 
the door beneath the staircase carrying a rolled up 
mattress between them. 

“What is that, Parkyns?’ enquired Louisa. 

“The other mattress, Madam, which you said 
we were to put on the bed in the Blue Room.” 

Rose heard the reply and started consciously. 
Hilary also realized what was happening and 
with a covert glance at Rose turned to Pottinger, 
with whom he exchanged a meaning and desperate 
glance. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Louisa, “quite right, 
Parkyns — see that everything necessary is taken 
into the room.” 


“Yes, Madam.” 


The Blue Room 


239 


The servants conveyed the offending object up 
the staircase to a room which opened on the bal- 
cony landing. 

“I think Sunday evening is always so very 
peaceful,” observed Louisa, still pursuing her 
laudable effort to promote conversation. “So 
calm — so restful.” 

The only response to this remark was a pro- 
longed snore from the Admiral. 

“Peter!” shouted Janet, in a tone which thor- 
oughly aroused that ancient mariner. 

“Eh — what d’ye say?” 

“You were snoring.” 

“Was I? — well, I had to enliven the proceed- 
ings somehow.” He rose slowly — yawned — 
filled his pipe — strolled to the window, and drew 
back the curtains, revealing the brilliant moon- 
light which streamed through the windows. 

“What a lovely night — I’ll smoke my pipe out- 
side. It’ll be a deuced sight more lively out 
there,” he muttered, as he sauntered into the 
garden. 

At that precise moment Parkyns and Curtiss 
reappeared from the Blue Room and, returning to 
the passage from which they had first emerged — 
almost immediately reappeared: the former car- 


240 


The Third Party 

rying an arm-chair, and the maid bearing a bundle 
of blankets in her arms. Their journeys were sev- 
eral times repeated — on each occasion some addi- 
tional necessaries for the Joneses’ comfort — being 
conveyed from the store room. The transference 
of these things was not unnoticed by the unhappy 
couple for whom they were designed, and had a 
still more paralysing effect upon them. They 
were simply incapable of speech, and Pottinger 
himself was similarly stricken. Meanwhile, the 
puzzled Louisa was positively desperate at the 
gloomy attitude of her friends. 

“Would you like to hear the gramophone?” she 
suggested, feeling it was a brilliant inspiration, 
and rising with the intention of winding up the 
cabinet grand, which stood in a corner near the 
fireplace. 

Her proposal had at least one effect in provok- 
ing a chorus of “No’s!” which were echoed simul- 
taneously by Rose, Doris, Janet and Hilary — 
followed by an emphatic “Certainly not” from 
Pottinger. 

Poor Louisa was completely nonplussed — she 
turned to her husband reprovingly. 

“I think you might do something to amuse your 
friends, Christopher.” Again she mentally sought 


The Blue Room 


241 


for possibilities — “Mr. Jones might like a game 
of billiards, perhaps?” 

“Do you think you would caie about it?” asked 
Pottinger. 

“Thanks!” replied Hilary with pretended en- 
thusiasm — then rising, added in a rapid aside to 
his host, “I shouldn’t, really — but anything to get 
out of this.” 

“Come along, then,” said Pottinger, who led 
the way down the corridor followed by Hilary. 

“I’ll mark for you, shall I?” said Doris, rising 
and joining the latter. As they went out together 
she whispered to him, “I must see you alone 
presently.” 

“Right, I’ll dodge the billiards somehow — 
where?” was the swift response. 

“On the terrace by the conservatory.” 

“I’ll be there,” he whispered, as they entered 
the billiard room together. 

About this time, Mary English closed her book 
and became aware that the constraint on the part 
of everyone — which she had noticed at dinner — 
had not relaxed, and not feeling called upon to 
exert herself to dissipate the general gloom, ex- 
cused herself. 

“I think I’ll go to my room, Louisa. I’ve a 


242 


The Third Party 

fuf-fuf-frightfully long letter to write to Pup- 
Pup-Percy — he’s been getting into mischief and 
I’ve got to read him a lel-lel-lecture — you don’t 
mind, do you?” and without waiting for a reply 
she scuttled off, glad to escape the embarrassment 
which so obsessed the others. 

Meanwhile the preparation of the Blue Room 
continued and it was with positive gratitude that 
Louisa heard Curtiss addressing her — the latter 
desired her mistress’s advice. 

“I think, ma’am,” she said, “we had better try 
the larger mattress. The bed in the Blue Room is 
so small for two people.” 

“Oh-h-h ! !” This was a wailing cry from Rose, 
who turned and buried her face in the cushions 
of the settee. In an instant Louisa was at her 
side. 

“I’m really afraid you’re ill, dear Mrs. Jones,” 
she cried. “Are you in pain?” 

“N-no,” fluttered Rose, “it’s — it’s something 
in my head — I feel quite giddy — I think, if you 
don’t mind, I’ll lie down in the drawing-room 
again.” 

“Yes, do, dear, by all means — no one will dis- 
turb you there. Your room will be ready soon 
and then you can go to bed comfortably.” Rose 


The Blue Room 


243 


shuddered violently at this suggestion. “You 
have taken a chill, I’m afraid — I shall send you 
a hot drink — would you like me to come with 
you?” 

“No indeed — it’s very kind of you — but I 
wpuld rather be alone.” 

Louisa yielded to her humour and anxiously 
watched her retreating figure; then went to the 
table, selecting a number of “Punch” from the 
papers and magazines which littered it. 

Janet had closely watched these proceedings 
and now indulged in one of her emphatic sniffs. 
It was an unmistakable expression of her disap- 
proval, as Louisa well knew. 

“What is the matter with you, Janet?” she 
asked. 

“Matter with me. There’s nothing the matter 
with me , Louisa.” 

“But there is, dear, I can see it.” 

“It’s a great pity you can’t see what is the mat- 
ter with other people.” 

“They do seem rather out of sorts,” she con- 
fessed; “it must be the thunder.” 

“Well, it may be, but I can only say I have 
never witnessed such extraordinary behaviour at 
a dinner table in all my life. Mr. and Mrs. 


244 


The Third Party 

Jones sat there without saying a word to any- 
body, Miss Mayne scarcely lifted her eyes from 
her plate — and then only to stare in the most 
curious way at Mrs. Jones — and Christopher 
was scowling at everybody and as surly as a bear. 
What do you suppose it all means ?” 

“I believe you know, Janet; if you do, I wish 
you would tell me what it is.” 

“Don’t be a fool, Louisa. I tell you I know 
nothing, but I use my eyes and put two and two 
together, and if you can’t do the same you have 
only yourself to blame.” 

“Good gracious, Janet. What do you sus- 
pect?’ 

“I cannot say, but people certainly don’t behave 
as they have been doing without some cause.” 

“Perhaps not, dear, but remember, Christopher 
has been very tired and irritable, lately, and 
everyone seems nervous and upset. I do not think 
it is anything more than that.” 

“Possibly,” was the sarcastic reply. 

Louisa saw that it was useless to question her 
sister further — either she knew nothing, or, if she 
did, was in no mood to reveal it, so as Curtiss 
once more appeared on the stairs, she welcomed 
the opportunity to commence a conversation. 


The Blue Boom 245 

“Is the Blue Room nearly ready, Curtiss 4 ?” 
she asked. 

“I have only the bed to make, Ma’am, and a 
few things to arrange, but the room seems a bit 
dampish.” 

“You must put a light to the fire and let me 
know when everything is arranged. I should 
never forgive myself,” she said, as Curtiss de- 
parted on this errand, “if those dear young people 
caught cold in my house.” 

“Humph! I think ‘those dear young people’ 
are quite capable of taking care of themselves.” 

“I’m afraid you are prejudiced, Janet. They 
are a most charming couple — so fresh — so inno- 
cent.” 

“I shouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you.” 

“It is most wicked of you to say such things 
— at all events, I must make them comfortable. 
It was not their fault they were unable to get to 
the station. Now do be amiable about it, Janet.” 

“Amiable indeed! Pm making no objection. 
It’s your house, not mine.” 

“Well, you might go to my room, dear, and 
get out what you think Mrs. Jones is likely to re- 
quire for the night.” 

‘Oh, certainly, if you wish it.” 


246 


The Third Party 

She rose in compliance with this request and 
Louisa expressed her intention of seeing for her- 
self that everything was in order. Together they 
ascended the stairs, Janet entering her sister’s 
room on the right of the landing, and Louisa pro- 
ceeding to the Blue Room, which adjoined it. 
She had just reached the door when Curtiss ap- 
peared at it. 

Being informed by the girl that all was now 
ready, except for a pair of pillow slips that had 
been forgotten, and some coals for the fire to be 
carried up, Louisa entered the room to make any 
final touches that might be required, and, as Cur- 
tiss reached the hall, she encountered Parkyns, 
who was bringing in a salver with a decanter of 
whisky and a syphon. 

“Have you finished up there yet?” the butler 
enquired. 

“Pretty nearly,” the maid informed him. “I 
have the fire to light. I’m just going to tell Mary 
to take up some coal. Where are they all?” she 
asked, surveying the empty apartment. 

The butler shook his head. 

“Keeping out of each other’s way, seemingly. 
One would think their dinner disagreed with 
’em, only they didn’t eat nothin’ to speak of.” 


The Blue Room 24*7 

“You don’t mean to say the old cat lost her 
appetite, do you 4 ?” 

“Not she, nor the Admiral neither — but she’s 
’ad a look on ’er as was enough to turn the cream 
sour — none of the others seemed able to swallow 
anythink except the wine — the master and that 
Jones chap were pretty good at that, I noticed. 
The Missus was smiling amiable as usual, tryin’ 
to make conversation, but nobody else ’ad a word 
to say.” 

“What do you think can have happened?” 

“I dunno, but there’s something very queer go- 
ing on and I don’t believe, either the missus or 
the old cat knows what it is.” 

“Couldn’t we find out, Mr. Parkyns?” said 
Curtiss, whose curiosity had been thoroughly 
aroused. 

“In doo course, Curtiss, in doo course. I dessay 
I shall hellucidate the myst’ry. The behaviour of 
young Halgernon Brockenhurst was the first think 
to rouse my suspicions.” 

“What did he do?” enquired the now excited 
parlour-maid. 

“I dunno exactly, but just before dinner time 
I comes in ’ere and finds young Halgernon 
a-prancin’ up and down, a-bitin’ of ’is nails, and 


248 


The Third Party 

rumplin’ ’is ’air, as if ’ee’d got St. Viper’s Dance. 
‘You’ll be stayin’ for dinner, Sir,’ says I. ‘Din- 
ner be damned,’ says ’e, and then clappin’ ’is ’and 
to ’is ’ead as if he’d gone mad suddink-like, ’e 
cries out, ‘Oh, Rosey! Rosey! I will save you 
yet!’ and rushes out of the ’ouse, and off on ’is 
motor-bike as if all ’ell was after ’im.” 

“Lawks! Mr. Parkyns, what can ’e ’ave 
meant?” cried Curtiss, who had followed the but- 
ler’s dramatic narrative with breathless interest. 

“That is what I want to find out, Curtiss — de- 
pend on it — there is more in this than meets the 
hye and what’s more, I b’leeve that there Jones 
is at the bottom of it.” 

“Oh, do you really think that? and him such a 
nice-spoken gentleman, too.” 

“You can never go by appearances, Curtiss — 
never forget that. I ’aven’t the least doubt of it 
— just keep your hyes and hears open — that’s 
all.” 

“I mean to,” said the girl pertly, “but I must 
see about that fire upstairs — I don’t envy -anyone 
sleepin’ in there, it’s damp enough to give one the 
shivers.” 

“Sh-h-h-h!” whispered Parkyns. “Clear out 
quick — there’s somebody cornin’.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A TERRIBLE DILEMMA 

T HE footsteps which had disturbed the ser- 
vants were those of Hilary and Doris, 
who were returning from their meeting behind 
the conservatory. The former had excused him- 
self from the proposed game, and Pottinger, who 
was quite willing to forego it, sought the seclu- 
sion of his so-called study, where he attempted 
to compose his nerves with a big cigar. 

Hilary had made a frank confession to Doris 
of the freak which had brought about the terrible 
dilemma in which he found himself. He admit- 
ted his folly and begged her forgiveness — how 
could he have dreamt that a perfectly innocent 
joke would have landed him in such a hole as 
this, he told her; he was all contrition, but it 
seemed to Doris that his penitence was inspired 
less by his initial recklessness in undertaking the 
adventure, than by the extremely unpleasant con- 
sequences it had given rise to. 

249 


250 


The Third Party 

“And you give me your word that this is the 
truth? 5 ’ Doris was saying. 

“Honour bright. True as gospel.” 

“You poor, dear boy, what a scrape to get 
into!” she admitted almost sympathetically, in 
spite of her vexation. 

“Yes, and I don’t see a way out of it.” 

“Well, it serves you right. I cannot think how 
you could have ever consented to do such a 
thing.” 

“I never dreamt of this happening,” he pro- 
tested. t 

“No, I don’t suppose you did; well, if it comes 
to the worst you will have to make a clean breast 
of it.” 

“It will be all up with Pottinger if I do.” 

“Why should you consider him? The posi- 
tion is far too serious.” 

“Well, for that matter, I don’t know why I 
should,” agreed Hilary. “He’s given me the very 
deuce of a time — says it’s all my fault from be- 
ginning to end.” 

“If it comes to that,” cried Doris, “I think 
Miss Gaythorne is far more to blame than you 
are.” 

“We’d better leave her out of the question — 


A Terrible Dilemma 251 

she’s on the xerge of hysterics already — goodness 
only knows what she may do.” 

“Well, at all events,” said Doris, “I hope this 
will be a lesson to you. I ought to be very angry, 
I know ” 

“You ought, dear,” her erratic lover admitted. 
“You are right — you ought to be infernally angry 
and instead of that — you are going to forgive 
me.” 

“Poor old Hilary, I suppose I must,” she ad- 
mitted, “but promise you will never — never — do 
such a mad thing again.” 

“I only did it for a lark, remember — I thought 
it would be jolly good fun.” 

“The humour of some people,” she remarked, 
smiling, “is so delicate, they ought to take a tonic 
for it.” 

At this point they were interrupted by the ap- 
pearance of Rose, who, in her restless condition, 
and finding the loneliness of the drawing-room 
intolerable, had wandered out in search of Hil- 
ary or Pottinger. It was quite apparent that she 
was still in a highly excitable state and she ner- 
vously twisted the dainty lace handkerchief she 
carried between her fingers. 

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Miss Mayne,” 


252 


The Third Party 

she apologised, “but” — turning to Hilary — “I 
must speak to you alone.” 

Doris, who fully appreciated the situation, 
pressed his hand silently and withdrew, and Rose 
— finding herself alone — turned a pathetic face 
to Hilary and in a trembling voice begged him 
to tell her what he was going to do. 

“We can’t remain here,” she cried, “it’s — it’s 
too dreadful — the place suffocates me ; I feel I am 
going mad.” 

“Now please don’t get excited,” he urged. 
“That’s not the way to face the situation.” 

“I don’t mean to face it, believe me,” she re- 
plied almost petulantly. 

“Perhaps you can tell me what you do pro- 
posed” he asked. She evaded a reply to this 
question by flying off at a tangent. 

“What do you suppose Algy will think d” she 
demanded tumultuously. 

“Well, with regard to that, I happen to know 
already. You see, he’s an old friend of mine, 
and he thinks I have played him false.” 

“Well, he will imagine that you and I are ” 

“Yes — of course, naturally — that’s the devil 
of it!” 

“Oh! oh!” she cried. “What shall I dod 


A Terrible Dilemma 


253 


What has become of him, do you think? — if I 
could only find him and explain everything.” 

“It’s just as well that you shouldn’t, for the 
present, anyhow. Now — do try to calm your- 
self,” he urged, as she showed signs of an hys- 
terical outburst. “What’s the use of exciting 
yourself ?” 

“Exciting myself! Ha, ha, ha!” she laughed 
hysterically. “I’m perfectly calm. Quite, quite 
calm. Can’t you see?” 

In spite of this assurance, it was with difficulty 
she restrained herself from a further outbreak, and 
Hilary, fearing that she would entirely lose her 
self-control and alarm the house, did his utmost 
to calm her. 

“For Heaven’s sake, keep quiet. You’ll ruin 
everything if you go on like that. I’ll get you 
out of this tangle yet, if you’ll only leave every- 
thing to me.” 

“How can I trust you? — you have behaved 
shamefully. You have robbed me of Algy — 
he’ll never forgive me — never ! — and it’s all your 
doing. Shall I tell you what I think of you?” 

“Oh, go on,” he answered, resignedly. “I’m 
getting used to it. I’ve just been listening to 
Pottinger’s opinion of me — it wasn’t flattering.” 


254 


The Third Party 

“No doubt it was accurate .” 

“It was emphatic at all events. Now, my dear 
girl, do be reasonable.” 

“Reasonable, indeed !” 

“Let us discuss the position quietly, without 
temper.” 

“I shall do nothing of the sort; I refuse to lis- 
ten to you.” 

“Oh, very well, if you won’t, that settles it — 
but don’t blame me for what may happen. It’s 
your funeral as well as mine, remember — I leave 
you to think it over.” 

He bowed stiffly, and was already half-way 
across the room when she called him back. He 
stopped and faced round, but did not return. 

“You are not going, are you?” she asked anx- 
iously. 

“In your present mental condition it seems 
useless for me to remain.” 

“Oh, I have no patience with you,” she cried, 
tapping her foot irritably. 

“That’s the unfortunate part of it.” 

“Then for goodness’ sake go, and leave me to 
myself.” 

“By all means — I feel sure it is the best thing 
I can do.” 


A Terrible Dilemma 


2 55 


He was considerably huffed and decided that 
one of Pottinger’ s cigars might provide a sedative 
to his ruffled nerves. He had just reached the en- 
trance to the corridor and was about to pass 
through, when he cannoned against Pottinger, 
who had at that moment emerged from his 
study. 

“Sorry, I’m sure,” apologised Hilary. “You’d 
better see if you can’t pacify Miss Gaythorne,” 
he whispered. “I can do nothing with her, and, 
in her present mood, there is no knowing what 
she may take it into her head to do next. It was 
no use my stopping, so Pm going to the billiard 
room to try one of your Havanas.” 

When Pottinger entered the hall, he found poor 
Rose standing in the same rigid pose in which 
Hilary had left her — her eyes half closed, and 
her fingers working nervously. So intense was 
her preoccupation, that she did not hear him en- 
ter, and it was only when he announced his pres- 
ence by a loud “Ahem,” that she turned and saw 
him. To his surprise and intense dismay, she 
rushed towards him, flinging both arms about his 
neck and resting her head on his shoulder like a 
child seeking protection from some imminent dan- 
ger. She raised her eyes appealingly to his and 


256 The Third Party 

in spite of his embarrassment, he smiled at her in 
return. 

“Dear, dear, dear Mr. Pottinger,” she cried im- 
pulsively, “ you are my only friend — you will 
help me, won’t you?” 

“Help you, my dear, of course I will.” Un- 
consciously, perhaps, he put his arm round her 
waist, taking her free hand in his. 

“And — and you will take my part?” she asked. 

“Of course I will — against everyone.” 

“I mean,” she continued anxiously, “you will 
take me away, won’t you? — oh, say — say you 
will.” 

“Good gracious, my child — where shall I take 
you to?” 

“Anywhere — I can’t stay here,” she whimpered. 

“To be sure you can’t,” he agreed, stroking her 
hand and smiling encouragement. 

“And yet — with you I feel so safe,” she con- 
tinued, still clinging to him. 

Poor Rose was no longer coquetting, she was 
in deadly earnest — she was bewildered and half 
crazy with anxiety and alarm, and she felt that 
Pottinger was the only one who, knowing the 
truth, could extricate her from her difficulties and 
save the situation. 


A Terrible Dilemma 


257 


“There — there,” he purred soothingly. “You 
must not distress yourself like that — you are quite 
safe of course — with me.” 

“Yes — but not here — not here,” she said, sud- 
denly breaking from him with a fierce change of 
manner; “I must go at once.” 

She faced him with an expression of such de- 
termination — with set lips and blazing eyes, 
that he was quite startled by her change of 
manner. 

“Come,” she said, clutching him firmly by the 
arm and dragging him forward, “we must go at 
once.” 

“Stop! Stop! — that’s all very well,” he pro- 
tested, — “but where are we to go?” 

“How should I know?” was the disconsolate 
reply. “All I know is I must get away from here 
and you must take me.” 

It was fortunate they were standing apart, for 
Curtiss and the under housemaid suddenly ap- 
peared from the servants’ door, the latter carrying 
a scuttle of coals and wood. Pottinger and his 
protegee watched them as they proceeded to the 
Blue Room and, as Curtiss entered, could plainly 
hear Louisa addressing her. 

“I think, Curtiss,” she said, “as the night has 


258 


The Third Party 

turned so chilly, another blanket will be neces- 
sary — then the bed will be quite comfortable.” 

“You hear that?” gasped Rose. “It’s too aw- 
ful. Oh, dear — darling Mr. Pottinger — you 
must get me away at once — I can’t bear it any 
longer — I can’t — I can't” she added hysterically. 

Again, in her excitement, she unconsciously 
clung to him, but this time, remembering the 
half-open door upon the landing, he promptly ex- 
tricated himself from her embrace. 

“Good gracious,” he said in an alarmed whis- 
per, “you mustn’t do that. Suppose we should be 
seen.” 

“I don’t care who sees me,” she answered 
wildly. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, do something! 
Can’t you see I’m getting desperate?” 

“Yes, yes, of course, so am I,” he replied, en- 
deavouring to pacify her ; “it will be all right, I 
tell you — now let me think ” 

“Oh, yes, do think,” she cried. “Think! 
think ! ! think ! ! !” 

She watched him eagerly as he stood with up- 
lifted hand, warning her to silence, till at last 
he exclaimed triumphantly, “I’ve got it !” 

“You have a plan?” she demanded eagerly. 
“Oh, dearest Mr. Pottinger! You have thought 


A Terrible Dilemma 259 

of something.” And once again she clung to him 
impulsively. 

“Christopher !” called Louisa, opening the door 
of the room above. In an instant Pottinger, some- 
what roughly, pushed Rose aside. The action 
was so unexpected that she would have fallen, 
had she not been standing beside the settee, and 
into this she fortunately collapsed in a sitting 
posture. 

“Y-ye-yes, my love!” answered Pottinger 
feebly. 

“Is that Mrs. Jones with you?” asked Louisa, 
looking down from the balcony railings. “I 
thought I heard your voices — I do hope you are 
feeling better, dear Mrs. Jones — your room will 
soon be ready and then I should advise you to go 
to bed — I shan’t be long now.” And the good 
lady bustled into the room again, closing the door 
behind her. 

This interlude only seemed to increase Rose’s 
anxiety. 

“Quick !” she said, placing her hand lightly on 
Pottinger’s arm, “tell me your idea!” 

“Yes, but don’t come so close,” he answered 
nervously. “She might have seen you just now. 
It gave me quite a shock.” 


260 The Third Party 

“You thought of something,” she persisted 
eagerly. 

“Well, I did,” he admitted, “but ” 

“Yes, yes, but what 4 ?” 

“You’ve put it completely out of my head.” 

“What!” she cried, aghast at this admission. 
“Then if you’ve forgotten it I know what I shall 
do!” 

“Capital! I thought you would hit on some- 
thing if you only kept calm. What is it 4 ?” 

“I’ll confess everything to your wife ! ! !” 

“W-wha-what 4 ?” he stammered, utterly con- 
founded by her threat. “Merciful heavens, you 
mustn’t dream of doing that. The most horrible 
catastrophe would happen if you did. No, no, 
you must leave it to me — I — I’ll find a way some- 
how, even if I — s-s-s-sh ! She’s coming,” he 
whispered, “not a word, remember.” And he 
held up a warning finger. 

“Now, dear,” said Louisa, as she descended the 
staircase, “everything is nice and comfortable — 
the room is a little chilly, I’m afraid, but Curtiss 
is lighting a good fire.” 

“But Louisa,” put in Pottinger, anxiously 
catching at a straw, “they can’t possibly sleep in 
a damp room.” 


A Terrible Dilemma 261 

“No, no,” added Rose. “I should be dread- 
fully frightened of doing that.” 

“As if I should let you do anything of the kind 
— the room is not really damp, only it hasn’t 
been slept in lately — the fire will soon make it 
warm and cosy.” Rose was spared the necessity 
of a reply by the appearance on the landing of 
Janet Maxwell, who was carrying an assortment 
of lingerie, in a wicker basket. 

“What about these things, Louisa^” she asked 
her sister. 

“Bring them down here, dear — we can then see 
what is wanted.” 

In obedience to this command, Janet promptly 
joined them, placing the basket which contained 
amongst other necessities and superfluities, a ki- 
mono, slippers, a sponge, a cardboard box of 
toothbrushes, a hot water bottle, and a very smart 
night-dress. The latter she placed on a chair, ar- 
ranging the other articles on the table for their 
guest’s selection. During this proceeding Hilary, 
who had finished his cigar, and had wandered 
into the grounds where he stumbled on the Ad- 
miral, came in with the latter, and noticing the 
ladies’ occupation, the two continued their con- 
versation at the opposite side of the room. 


262 


The Third Party 

“I think,” Janet was saying, “I have every- 
thing that Mrs. Jones is likely to require for the 
night.” 

“It is most kind of you,” said Rose, with forced 
calmness. 

“You’ll be glad of the hot water bottle, I ex- 
pect,” suggested Louisa. “It has turned so very 
cold since the storm, don’t you think ?” 

Poor Rose thought she was in hot water enough 
to suffice for all reasonable requirements, but 
contrived to say that she would not need it. 

“Well, perhaps not,” assented Louisa. “Here 
are some tooth brushes — just choose which you 
like, and you’ll know the kind your husband uses. 
Christopher, dear,” she added, “you will see that 
Mr. Jones has all he wants. Won’t you smoke*?” 
she suggested, hospitably, turning to Hilary. 
“It’s allowed here, you know. Christopher, why 
don’t you look after your friend?” 

Pottinger produced cigars and cigarettes and 
Hilary selecting one of the latter, Pottinger re- 
mained by his side talking earnestly in under- 
tones, while the Admiral, furnished with a big 
corona, strolled down to his favourite chair, on 
which, as it happened, the dainty article of night 
attire, previously mentioned, was lying. Regard- 


A Terrible Dilemma 


263 


less of this, he plumped down on the filmy con- 
fection of lace and fine linen in such a manner 
as to elicit a sharp cry of dismay from the 
spinster. 

“Do take care, Peter — see what you’re sitting 
on.” 

The Admiral, not realizing the enormity of his 
offence, rose suddenly and saw something white 
upon the seat, the nature of which, in his mascu- 
line ignorance, he was unable to determine — He 
gingerly took it in his hand and, unfolding it by 
a vigorous shake, revealed the nature of the gar- 
ment. 

“What are you doing, Peter?” cried Louisa, 
snatching this truly feminine article from his 
grasp. 

“Well,” said the contrite sailor, “she told me to 
see what I was sitting on.” 

Janet glared at him and was apparently about 
to address some further sisterly reproof when 
Curtiss appeared on the balcony landing. She 
coughed apologetically. 

“I beg pardon, ma’am,” she said, “but this fire 
is smokin’ horrible.” 

“How very annoying — is the damper up?” 

“Oh, yes’m.” 


264 


The Third Party 

“I told you that chimney smoked,” growled 
Pottinger, who was secretly delighted, for it sug- 
gested an avenue of escape from a very awkward 
dilemma. “You don’t suppose anyone can sleep 
in a room that ” 

His remarks were cut short by a scream from 
Curtiss — and simultaneously a dense volume of 
smoke burst from the room, partially obscuring 
the maid, who stood on the landing with black- 
ened face and hands. 

“Please’m,” cried the girl, in alarm, “there’s a 
lot of soot fallen all over the carpet, and the 
chimney’s smokin’ worse than ever. No one can 
possibly sleep in there.” 

“Dear me, how tiresome, to be sure,” said 
Louisa, hurrying off to investigate the trouble, 
and followed by Janet, who appeared to think 
that nothing could be successfully remedied with- 
out her intervention. 

“How lovely,” exclaimed Rose, when the two 
ladies had disappeared. 

“My hat! — That’s great,” cried Hilary, who 
was equally delighted. 

“My dear fellow,” chimed in the jubilant Pot- 
tinger, “I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to 
sleep in there.” 



THE ADMIRAL PLUMPED DOWN ON TIIE FILMY CONFECTION OF LACE 





























K 














A Terrible Dilemma 


265 


“My dear old chap, I wouldn’t think of it,” 
replied Hilary. 

Carried away by their hilarious mood, the three 
joined hands in a small circle and danced around 
gleefully, to the intense surprise of the Admiral, 
who wondered if they had all suddenly gone mad. 
Their jubilation, however, was cut short by the 
reappearance of Louisa and Janet, followed by 
Curtiss, who resembled a feminine chimney 
sweep. 

“The smoke is simply suffocating,” said the 
former. “Curtiss opened the window, but that 
only seemed to make it worse. You must get 
some dust sheets, Curtiss,” she said, turning to 
the maid, “and cover up everything. Dear, 
dear,” she cried, “how unfortunate, to be sure. I 
wonder what we can do now.” The poor lady 
seemed totally at a loss for any remedy. 

c Tve a brilliant idea,” said Pottinger, slap- 
ping his thigh in high glee. 

“Have you, dear?” 

“Eh?” 

“Pm so glad.” 

“Out with it.” 

Louisa, the Admiral, Rose, and Hilary were all 
speaking together. 


266 The Third Party 

“The room can’t be used, that’s certain,” com 
tinued Pottinger. 

“Of course not,” agreed Rose. 

“Impossible,” confirmed Hilary. 

“On no account,” agreed Louisa. 

“Then I propose, Peter,” Pottinger went on, 
smiling genially at what seemed to be a solution 
of their troubles, “that instead of going to bed, 
you and I should sit up with Mr. and Mrs. Jones 
and play 'Bridge.’ ” 

The suggestion was hailed with acclamation by 
Rose and Hilary. 

“I call that a perfectly magnificent idea of 
yours, Pottinger,” said the latter, beaming with 
delight. 

“Heavenly!” cried Rose, feeling that her trou- 
bles were over at last. “I love 'Bridge’ !” 

“I’m dashed if I’ll do anything of the sort,” 
shouted the Admiral. “What variety of idiot do 
you take me for?” 

“Oh, please don’t say that, Admiral,” pleaded 
Rose anxiously. “You will play, won’t you?” 

“Of course he will,” Hilary assured her. 

“I tell you, I’ll do nothing of the sort,” thun- 
dered Peter, in quite his old quarter-deck manner. 

“But to oblige me , Admiral,” persisted Rose. 


A Terrible Dilemma 


267 


“Really,” interposed Louisa, “I think it a most 
preposterous suggestion of yours, Christopher.” 

“Scarcely an appropriate game for Sunday 
night, I should have thought,” interrupted Janet. 

“Oh, come, Miss Maxwell,” Hilary began, but 
Louisa, quite misinterpreting the enthusiasm of 
“Mr. and Mrs. Jones” had, as she imagined, a far 
better plan to propose. 

“It is very nice of you, dear Mrs. Jones,” she 
said. “I know your only idea is to save us trou- 
ble, but really I could not think of allowing you 
to lose your night’s rest. You shall have our 
room !” 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE LAST STRAW 


OUISA’S proposal was like a bomb-shell ex- 



-1— * ploding amongst them. In an instant 
their happy excuse of escape from a hideous posi- 
tion, was scattered to the winds — once more they 
were plunged in the depths of despair. 

“NO, no!” said Rose, trying to speak calmly. 
“I could never dream of inconveniencing you like 


that.” 


“Nonsense, my dear — it won’t upset us in the 
least. I can sleep with Janet, and you, Chris- 
topher, can share Peter’s room.” 

“No, I’ll be hanged if he does,” was the Ad- 
miral’s emphatic reply. 

“I should think not, indeed,” grumbled Pot- 
tinger. 

“And why not, please?” she asked. “It would 
simplify everything.” 

“It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Pottinger,” inter- 


The Last Straw 


269 


rupted Hilary, “but we couldn’t think of turning 
you out of your room.” 

“And Christopher snores like a grampus,” ob- 
jected the Admiral. 

“You exaggerate, Peter,” Louisa protested. 

“Oh, no, he doesn’t. I always snore in a 
strange room,” persisted Pottinger, who was quite 
ready to sacrifice veracity for the sake of expe- 
dience. 

“In that case,” suggested the resourceful Janet, 
“he can sleep on the drawing-room sofa.” 

Louisa thought this a splendid idea and won- 
dered why she had not thought of it before. 
“That, of course, makes everything quite easy,” 
she said. “I’ll go and see about it at once.” 

Rose was beginning to lose patience with her 
well-meaning hostess, whose amiable interference 
threatened to create fresh difficulties, but Louisa 
was deaf to all objections and bustled from the 
room, followed by her two guests, who were de- 
termined to protest with all their combined in- 
genuity against the proposed expedient. 

“I don’t know what’s the matter with everyone 
to-night,” grumbled the Admiral, addressing Ja- 
net and his brother-in-law, when the others had 
gone. “It seems as if they were all crazy.” 


270 


The Third Party 

He lit a fresh cigar and strolled into the gar- 
den, and Pottinger at last found himself alone 
with the spinster. 

For a moment she remained silent, apparently- 
waiting till her brother was out of ear-shot, and 
then turned to the unhappy man. 

“Perhaps you can explain matters, Christo- 
pher, ” was her ominous commencement. 

“I*? — explain what 4 ?” he asked, with well-as- 
sumed innocence. 

“Please don’t assume that artless manner with 
me, Christopher, it doesn’t become you. You 
know very well what I mean — you are concealing 
something.” 

“Ha! ha!” he replied, with a forced laugh, 
“what an absurd idea.” 

“Why can’t you be candid with me? Do you 
think I am as blind as Louisa?” she demanded. 

“No, I don’t — I mean, I fail to understand 
your insinuations.” 

“Suppose I tell you that I am quite aware who 
Mr. Jones really is,” was her unexpected remark. 

“Eh!” cried Pottinger, completely staggered 
by this announcement. 

“And Mrs. Jones — or Rosey, as it seems she 
calls herself.” 


The Last Straw 


271 


“Merciful powers!” ejaculated Pottinger, 
dropping back in his chair in a state of mental 
and physical collapse. 

“You may well be alarmed,” she continued, 
relentlessly fixing her eyes upon him till he posi- 
tively squirmed under her scrutiny. “I know all 
about it.” 

“Then wh-what are you going to do?” he 
gasped, believing she had, by some mysterious 
means, discovered the truth. 

But his dismay was as nothing compared with 
the blank amazement he experienced on hearing 
her reply. 

“My dear Christopher,” she assured him, “I 
will do anything I possibly can to help you. You 
are naturally thinking of your own unfortunate 
position, and I have no wish to interfere with any 
precautions you may be taking to secure your 
safety, but although I fully appreciate your anx- 
iety, I think you would have been wise to have 
confided in me from the first.” 

“In you?” he ejaculated in bewilderment. 

“I should have been glad to help you.” 

He could scarcely trust his hearing — he had 
not dared to look at her before, but now he did 
so. She was sitting in her normal attitude of 


272 


The Third Party 

bolt uprightness, and was positively smiling — it 
was a grim smile certainly, but for her it expressed 
an unusual condition of amiability — he had ex- 
pected nothing short of denunciation and she was 
actually offering to help him. 

“My dear Janet,” he cried with intense relief, 
“how I have misjudged you. Then — then you 
won’t tell Louisa?” 

“Certainly not. It is far better she should 
remain in ignorance.” 

“I quite agree with you,” he replied promptly. 

“Fortunately,” Janet continued, “she is not 
of a suspicious nature.” 

“No, it’s lucky she isn’t,” he admitted. “Not 
that there’s really anything wrong about it, of 
course.” 

“Perhaps not, Christopher, but it is as well, in 
the interests of domestic peace and harmony, 
that a wife should be the last person to know 
anything about it.” 

“I am very glad indeed to find you take 
such a sensible view of it,” Pottinger admitted, 
wondering what had brought about this curious 
change in his sister-in-law’s opinions and de- 
meanour. 

“My dear Christopher, I am a woman of ob- 


The Last Straw 273 

servation and common sense, that’s all,” she as- 
sured him. 

“You are, by Jove! I never thought you had 
such broad views, Janet; upon my word, I didn’t. 
And after all, where’s the harm 4 ?” 

“Harm?” she cried. “Absurd! Who said 
there was any harm?” 

“Everypne likes a little change and excitement 
occasionally,” he confessed, unguardedly, “and I 
know where to draw the line. Besides, it is an 
awfully select place — quite the best people go 
there.” 

As they were both wandering along different 
tracks, the apparent irrevelancy of this remark 
somewhat puzzled her. 

“The best people, Christopher?” 

“And especially having a fellow like Jones 
with us,” he blundered on. 

“Yes, of course,” she admitted doubtfully, 
“but why didn’t you tell me he was a detective” 
— suddenly he realized they were at cross pur- 
poses — he flushed consciously and wondered how 
far he might have committed himself — “instead 
of leaving me to learn it from him?” she added. 

“Eh? Er — what’s that?” he stammered. 

“I say, instead of allowing him to tell me? 


274 


The Third Party 

Why, whatever is the matter with you, Christo- 
pher?” she asked, noticing his embarrassment. 
Pottinger had been taken completely by surprise, 
and betrayed his uneasiness as much by his rest- 
lessness as by his alarmed expression. 

“I — Pm not feeling very well,” he answered 
feebly, producing his handkerchief and mopping 
his forehead, which was moist with perspiration. 
“It’s very warm in here, don’t you think?” 

“On the contrary,” she replied, regarding him 
with momentary suspicion, “the room happens to 
be particularly cool, with that window open. 
But I cannot understand why you shouldn’t have 
told me of this trouble, and that you had sent to 
Scotland Yard.” 

“Well, the — the fact is, that I — I mean — I 
was afraid of upsetting you,” he stammered. 

“Nonsense! You might have trusted me. Do 
you know that I began to suspect that you were 
involved in some vulgar intrigue.” 

“Surely you didn’t think that?” he said with a 
sickly smile. 

“Indeed, I did — and had I found you this aft- 
ernoon, I should have had something extremely 
unpleasant to say to you; but fortunately, since 
then, Mr. Jones has given me a hint of the truth.” 


275 


The Last Straw 

“Ah, he’s a dear good fellow, is Jones,” said 
Pottinger effusively. He was greatly relieved by 
what he had heard and, for the moment at least, 
the expression of his friendly feeling towards 
“Jones” was quite genuine. 

“Then why,” asked Janet, in some surprise, 
“have you quarrelled with him?” 

“Oh, er — well — I didn’t quite like his way of 
conducting the case,” he had the wit to reply. 

“Well, then,” she said, in her most amicable 
tones, “confide fully in me, and we’ll unravel it 
together.” 

Her suggestion alarmed him — he did not pos- 
sess the fertility of imagination which had en- 
abled the resourceful Hilary to slip out of his 
dilemmas so skilfully, and feared a further cate- 
chism might betray him. Fortunately this un- 
pleasant necessity was averted by the return of 
Louisa, who was accompanied by Rose and Hil- 
ary, and at the same time the Admiral came in 
from the garden. 

“I’m finding it very hard to convince these dear 
people,” said Louisa, addressing the others, 
“that they are not in the least upsetting our ar- 
rangements — it is no trouble at all, and even if 
it were, what does a little trouble matter, so long 


276 


The Third Party 

as it makes everybody happy. Now, Christopher, 
dear, please don’t look like that” — he was scowl- 
ing at her furiously — “you surely won’t mind 
sleeping on the sofa for once.” She rang the bell 
and then, while Rose and Hilary were staring at 
each other blankly, turned to her husband, ad- 
dressing him in a low whisper. “I really can’t 
understand why you are so disagreeable, Chris- 
topher. I thought you were so anxious to be nice 
to the Joneses and your behaviour has been abom- 
inable. Oh, Parkyns,” she said, turning to the 
butler, who appeared in answer to her summons, 
“tell Curtiss that Mr. and Mrs. Jones will oc- 
cupy our room to-night, and Mr. Pottinger will 
have a bed made up in the drawing-room. Let 
her see to it at once. There!” she cried, as the 
man disappeared, “now we have nothing more 
to worry about, have we?” 

She looked round, beaming with smiles at hav- 
ing settled these arrangements to her own satis- 
faction, and was dismayed to find that both Mr. 
and Mrs. Jones were still looking thoroughly 
wretched while the expression on her husband’s 
face quite alarmed her. She was allowed but lit- 
tle time, however, to puzzle herself at their un- 
accountable sullenness and was startled to see 


The Last Straw 277 

Rose advancing towards her with a face tense and 
rigid with emotion. 

“Mrs. Pottinger,” she said, resolutely confront- 
ing Louisa, and speaking very deliberately, 
“whatever you may think of me, I must tell the 
truth.” 

“The truth, Mrs. Jones!” was the somewhat 
startled reply. 

“The fact is,” Rose continued, nerving herself 
to reveal her deception, “the fact is I — I — am — 
not ” 

“You are not at all well, Rosamond,” inter- 
posed Hilary quickly. 

“No,” added Pottinger, trembling with appre- 
hension at the threatened revelation, and scarcely 
knowing what he was saying. “She’s not at all 
well, dear. There — there’s a wild look in her 
eyes.” 

“You must let me tell you,” Rose insisted, 
ignoring the interruption. “The fact is — I 
have ” 

“An important engagement in town, early to- 
morrow morning,” Hilary again suggested, “and 
— and she’s worried at not being able to keep it.” 

“Yes, yes! — no, no! it isn’t that at all,” she 
cried, with an hysterical little laugh. “Ha! ha! 


278 


The Third Party 

ha! Oh! — I think Pm going mad!” She flung 
herself on the settee and sobbed and laughed 
alternately. 

“By Jove,” said Hilary in a quickly whispered 
aside to Pottinger, “what a topping idea. If 
she’ll only go on like that it will help us wonder- 
fully.” 

“Come, come, dear,” murmured Louisa, con- 
cerned only for the distracted girl. “You really 
must not give way like that, — tell me what is the 
matter?’ 

“I will, I will,” cried Rose, between her sobs, 
“but you’ll never — never forgive me — never!” 

“Poor thing,” interposed Pottinger; “she 
doesn’t know what she is saying.” 

“Your nerves are thoroughly unstrung, my 
dear,” purred Louisa soothingly. “You mustn’t 
fret about anything now — you shall tell me all 
about it to-morrow — come, dear,” she continued, 
as Curtiss announced that the room was ready. 
“I shall insist on your going to bed at once.” 

“No! no!” she shrieked. “I won’t — I won’t! 
Wild horses shan’t drag me there.” 


CHAPTER XX 


DELIVERANCE 

L OUISA, whose face expressed alternating 
emotions of pity, bewilderment, and con- 
sternation, looked at the unhappy girl, who sat, 
staring back at her with a wild-eyed terror that 
was equally pathetic and alarming: and then, 
turned to Hilary with a significant glance of en- 
quiry. 

By way of reply he shook his head and drew 
her gently aside, while beckoning Pottinger to 
join them. 

“You had better not notice her,” he said, in a 
grave whisper, and tapping his forehead mean- 
ingly. “Of course you understand everything 
now. It is very terrible — these sudden attacks 
are becoming quite frequent, but, fortunately, they 
don’t last long. I noticed the warning symptoms 
some time ago, and feared this might happen. I 
ought to have prepared you, of course, but er — 
you can understand, dear Mrs. Pottinger, how one 
279 


280 The Third Party 

naturally shrinks from alluding to such a dread- 
ful affliction.” 

“My dear Jones,” murmured Pottinger, with 
unctuous sympathy, and lost in admiration at 
Hilary’s consummate ingenuity, “how sad ! How 
very sad!” 

“How sad indeed,” echoed Louisa, who was 
distressed beyond measure, “poor dear! I could 
never have guessed such a thing — is there noth- 
ing we can do for her?” 

“I fear not — the only way is to humour her,” 
said the afflicted “husband.” “If she wants to sit 
up and play ‘Bridge’ all night, for Heaven’s sake, 
let her do it. To oppose her in this might have 
the most alarming consequences. It — er — might 
permanently destroy her reason. Great Scot! 
What was that?” 

The deep prolonged note of a heavy motor 
horn was heard in the distance and each instant 
came nearer and nearer. 

As if by a common impulse, everyone turned in 
the direction of the sound, and Rose, with a sud- 
denness that startled them, sprang to her feet. 

“A motor !” she cried. 

“A motor!” 

“A motor!!” 


Deliverance 


281 


“A motor ! ! !” they echoed in turn. 

With an impetuous dash, she flew to a window 
overlooking the drive, followed by Hilary and 
Pottinger, who were just in time to see a big car 
dash by and pull up at the covered porch. A dark 
figure sprang from the driving seat and the next 
instant the bell clanged violently. 

“Who on earth can it be?” cried Pottinger ex- 
citedly. 

“At this hour, too,” added Janet. 

“It can’t be Tyson, at all events, he wouldn’t 
ring,” growled the Admiral. 

“Well, it’s a motor at all events,” shouted Hil- 
ary buoyantly. 

“And I shall be able to keep my appointment,” 
said Rose, laughing almost deliriously at the cer- 
tainty of escape — then she suddenly faced round 
to Louisa, and to that good lady’s momentary 
alarm, rushed towards her, flinging her arms 
about her, in the exuberance of her delight. 

“Dear, dear Mrs. Pottinger,” she cried, hug- 
ging her hostess impulsively, “it’s a motor! 
a motor ! ! a motor ! ! !” 

At the same moment the lobby door was thrown 
open and Parkyns announced: 

“Mr. Halgernon Brockenhurst /” 


282 The Third Party 

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, 
the staid butler was pushed aside, and Algy, wear- 
ing goggles, and enveloped in a long motor coat, 
stood before them. 

“Mrs. Pottinger,” he was beginning, in a 
breathless effort to explain his arrival, when Rose, 
still standing beside Louisa, whose arm enfolded 
her waist, broke from this gentle restraint and 
rushing to her lover, threw her arms round his 
neck, crying, “Algy! Algy! You have come back 
to me at last.” 

Whatever surprise so unconventional a greet- 
ing to a supposed stranger might have occasioned 
a few minutes before, this erratic behaviour was 
no longer a matter of astonishment to Louisa, 
even had not Hilary been at hand to explain it. 

“She thinks it is her brother again,” he said. 
“It will never do to undeceive her — humour her, 
Algy — play up to her,” he went on, for the benefit 
of the others, while Algy glared at him with un- 
speakable scorn. 

“Dear, dear Algy,” continued Rose, who was 
now quite indifferent to anyone’s presence but his. 
“You’ve come to take me away, haven’t you?” 

“At any risk — by force, if necessary.” This 
with an ominously threatening look at Hilary. 


Deliverance 283 

“But there’ll be no need for that, you darling 
boy. We are both ready.” 

“Both ! You surely don’t mean you expect me 
to take him as well?” 

“To be sure I do — we can’t leave him here, poor 
fellow,” she whispered hurriedly. “I can ex- 
plain everything presently — and to think he 
should be a friend of yours.” 

“He was once.” 

“He is still, I tell you.” 

This brief interlude was rendered possible in- 
asmuch that, in their mutual desire to act on Hil- 
ary’s suggestion of humouring “Mrs. Jones” 
everyone held carefully aloof, till that unfor- 
tunate lady showed signs of returning sanity. 

Hilary, however, sa^v the danger of creating 
a new suspicion, by permitting it to continue fur- 
ther, and advanced towards them, which had the 
immediate effect of sending Algy to join the 
others, while he remained by his “wife’s” side. 

“My dear Brockenhurst,” said Pottinger effu- 
sively, “your return is most opportune. I want 
you to do me a very great favour — I see — of 
course you have your motor car.” 

“Yes, I borrowed it from the Guv’nor.” 

“And you’re going to London, I suppose?” 


284 


The Third Party 

“That was the idea.” 

“Then you can take our friends, can’t you? I 
shall be eternally grateful.” 

“I’ve room for the lady,” he said grimly; “it’s 
only a two-seater.” 

“Don’t you think he might manage to hang on 
somehow?” queried Pottinger, anxiously. Algy 
made some evasive reply but secretly determined 
that if the infamous “Jones” did contrive to hang 
on, it would not be for want of any effort on his 
part to shake him off. Although he was con- 
vinced that Rose’s share in the day’s adventure 
was innocent enough, he was by no means satis- 
fied that his old friend was equally blameless, and 
his feelings towards him were but little short of 
murderous. 

“Well,” said Pottinger, at last relieved from 
his burden of anxiety so far as Miss Gaythorne 
was concerned, “that’s comfortably settled. 
Come, Mrs. Jones, let me help you on with your 
cloak.” 

“That’s no good, Christopher, she will need 
something warmer than that,” said Louisa, and 
she bustled off to find a cloak of her own. 

Meanwhile, Hilary, who, in spite of Algy’s 
unfriendly attitude, determined he would not be 


Deliverance 


285 


left behind, took a hurried leave of Doris, who, 
falling under the spell of his irresistible influence, 
was persuaded that she had nothing to forgive. 

“Let this be a warning to you,” she whispered. 

He assured her solemnly it would, and it is 
to be sincerely hoped that so it proved. 

A “stirrup cup,” in the form of whisky and 
soda being produced for the men, and a couple 
of Pottinger’s special brand of Havanas being 
lighted, the little party moved en masse towards 
the vestibule. 

“Good-bye, dear Mrs. Pottinger,” cried Rose, 
kissing her affectionately. “You can’t think how 
much better I feel. Do try and forgive me for 
being so foolish: but I was so upset at not being 
able to return to-night.” 

“I quite understand, dear,” cooed Louisa. 

“Good Heavens!” thought Rose, “I should be 
sorry if she did. Well, good-bye — good-bye, 
everyone,” she cried. “And thank you so much , 
Mr. Pottinger — I shall never — never forget my 
visit,” and Pottinger felt sure that he would never 
forget it either. 

“Well, good night, all,” shouted Algy, after 
tucking Rose into one of the bucket seats. 

“Good night,” echoed Hilary, to the group be- 


286 


The Third Party 

neath the porch, and preparing to find a make- 
shift perch on the rather sporting “Mercedes,” 
when he was confronted by Algy. 

“You don’t suppose I’m going to take you, do 
you*?” 

“Of course, dear boy,” returned Hilary, grin- 
ning good-humouredly. “I’m bound to come, you 
know, if only as your chaperon !” 



































' 




' 















































* 


































































































- 

, 

















